


The Unseen Genius

by OperasRose (BingToolbar)



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Tragedy, F/M, Murder-Suicide, premeditated plans, there will be pain as soon as i diverge i can assure you
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 23:11:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 30,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4764527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BingToolbar/pseuds/OperasRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik finally launches the plan he's been working on for so long to earn Christine's affections. Everything is perfect until Raoul de Chagny enters Christine's life. What will Erik do when a rival threatens to throw his perfect plan into chaos and, even worse, steal the promise of Christine's affections?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Recollections

It was the premiere of the Opera Populaire's new production of Chalumeau's Hannibal. This in itself held no surprise for the audience. The Opera Populaire's schedule was always fairly easy to predict, as the scheduled productions of the season repeated themselves every five to six years. The selections were curated to appeal to the majority of Paris with well received productions such as Carman, Faust, and the beloved Il Muto. But as the curtain rose, the audience was treated to a small shock. Expecting to watch yet another performance by Paris's resident diva, the majority of those seated were surprised to see a new star in their midst. At first the audience was less than thrilled to see the familiar face of Carlotta Guidichelli absent, but this was no matter as all thought of Signora Carlotta faded away as the new leading soprano began the aria that opened the Opera and a voice that seemed more divine than mortal washed over them.

The shadow watched Christine Daae with a gaze that burned. Tonight was everything that Erik had ever dreamt of and more. His pupil, the voice that he had cultivated and molded for the past decade was finally receiving the attention and admiration it deserved. His Angel of Music had finally made her debut. His beautiful angel.

Sitting comfortably from his customary seat in Box 5, Erik inwardly rejoiced at the thought of even greater events that would begin unfold in the coming evening. Tonight was to mark the official beginning of the plan that Erik had so carefully formulated for three years. As Act II of Hannibal came to a close and intermission began, Erik let his thoughts wander freely. Ah my love. Tonight you command all attention. Three years. The corner of Erik's mouth twitched into the hint of a smile. Has it only been so long? It seemed like a lifetime ago that Erik discovered that his feelings toward the Daae girl were beyond the affection a teacher held for his pupil. He let himself relive the day that irrevocably altered the planned course of his life.

_Erik quietly walked through the labyrinth that was the Opera Populaire. It was nearly seven o'clock, his appointed time to throw off the mask of the Phantom and don the Angel of Music's. As he approached Christine's dressing room, he slowed and checked his pocket watch. There were still a good ten minutes before his appointed time for Christine's lessons. He had not even realized that he had hurried to the appointed lesson and inwardly chucked at himself as he considered the absurdity of his unconscious actions. He, the great and feared Phantom of the Opera Populaire, waiting for a mere girl, seventeen years his junior. Of course, he was not without reasons._

_Ever since he had discovered the voice behind the crying little girl in the chapel, he saw his opportunity to leave his mark on humanity, however small. Erik had long recognized that the doors to the world of light were forever barred to him, and, with it, the chance to share his creations with the world. Although he scorned humanity and was glad to be all but completely removed from the world, his soul thought otherwise. The sometimes suffocating urge to create and form forced him to spend euphoric hours that stretched into days in front of the massive organ in his home. In those hours, he birthed divine music that laid bare the human soul and gave a bit of heaven's music to the earth. However, he knew that in a little over fifty years, Erik's music would die with him, left to rot in the damp, stagnant air of the lake house. As much as this thought pained him, there was nothing he could do to prevent the inevitable. Until he met Christine. Christine, whose vocal gifts equaled his own, could provide him with some small legacy. From the moment he first heard her sing, he realized that he could mold and shape her voice and in some, small way, leave his mark in the world of Music. He imagined Christine singing before the crowned heads of Europe with his spirit soaring through the majesty of her voice, the both of their souls combined into one entity, if but for a fleeting moment._

_Erik snapped to attention with the sound of footsteps approaching. The door opened and with his heart leapt into his throat. Only then, he realized why he had hurried. The the young girl he had spent so many years tutoring was gone. In her stead, a young woman, flushed with youth and vitality, stood. Christine had grown up without his realizing it. He felt the pang of longing for something that he had not craved in over fifteen years. It was in that moment that Erik realized that his feelings for Christine were so much less than platonic and the longing for love and companionship that had plagued him throughout his life had not been eradicated as he had hoped._

Erik had spent the past three years in an agony. As often as he had desired to, he did not dare to break the facade of the Angel of Music. As much as he craved to reveal himself to Christine and profess his love for her, he was afraid to lose his angel to the shock of realizing that it was a monster who loved her. However, this time, he was determined that he he would break the curse his face held over him. Thus, the plan was formed. For the past year or so, Erik had created and revised this plan until he perceived no flaw in its structure. Over time, Christine would learn to look past the face and find the beauty underneath. But everything needed to be executed with careful, premeditated states or he would face the familiar and real risk of losing his beloved to the curse of his visage. This thought left a bitter taste in Erik's mouth. The all too familiar longing to destroy the right side of his face surfaced. Once more, Erik longed to pull and scratch at his infected face and only cease when his cursed flesh was erased.

These dark thoughts fled from Erik's mind as the curtain rose and the light that Christine's voice radiated penetrated his entire being. He watched the remainder of Christine's performance in a trance-like state. As Hannibal came to an end and Christine soared to the last note of Elissa's aria, Erik fancied he felt his soul rise with her voice and leave his body.

Tonight marked the beginning of the end of Erik' lifetime of loneliness. In the euphoria of her, no their triumph, he would begin the process of breaking Christine's acquaintance with the Angel of Music and finally introduce her to Erik, the man.

\---------------------------

A/N: This is the only time I hope to put something like this at the end, but please let me know if you enjoy this work as it unfolds by kudo-ing/commenting on it. Please don't hesitate to give advice/feedback! Also if you see any grammar/spelling mistakes, please don't hesitate to let me know and I'll correct the offending word(s). Please remember, this is my first published fiction and I am by no means a wordsmith.


	2. An Unexpected Visitor

  Christine looked out across the audience in wonder. She found it all but inconceivable that these people were cheering for her. Just this morning she was a ballet girl who held little, if any, hope that her position in the Opera Popular would ever be beyond that of a combination chorus girl and second rate ballerina. Although the Angel of Music had often told her "Wait and see, we will take Paris by storm," she was ashamed to admit that she often doubted the credibility of this statement. But then Carlotta threw one of the fits she was so famous for in the Opera.

     As the curtain closed and the cast began to make their way back to their respective dressing rooms, Christine lingered on the abandoned stage, savoring the moment. Christine closed her eyes and thought how proud her father might have been if her were alive to see  their shared dreams made into reality. She allowed herself to get lost in nostalgia as she remembered one of the last things her father told her, just days before he died. "Christine," he said, "you have been gifted beyond imagination. You must promise me that you will not let your gifts waste away. Such would be a crime. You must promise me that you will share your gift with the world."

Christine was startled out of her thoughts when an angelic voice wafted its way to her, seemingly emulating from the very walls themselves.  _Brava, Brava, bravisima_ _,_ it whispered. With these words, a red rose tied with a black ribbon fell from the rafters. Christine picked the rose up off the floor and examined it feverishly.  _A gift from the Angel of Music!_  The Angel has never yet seen fit to gift her with anything but mild praise when she did exceptionally well. Christine flushed with pleasure at the thought that she had pleased him. Tonight, she had sung for her Angel and her Angel alone.

Christine heard the sound of footsteps approaching and quickly hid the rose behind one of the many folds in her skirt. She turned around to meet the intruder of her private moment and her gaze fell on Meg Giry. "Christine!" Meg exclaimed, "you were amazing!" as she ran to hug her dear friend. The pair embraced and clung to each other as Meg spun Christine around with sheer delight.

"Tell me, what was it like to be up there on the stage with all of Paris at your feet?" Meg asked breathlessly as the pair came to a stop.

"To be completely honest Meg, I can't quite tell you. Although when I sang I knew that I was up on the stage and before an audience, but it was as if I were walking through a dream."

Meg pouted.

"Christine, as always, you have the wonderful ability to make one feel as if they were there with you. You never tell me anything! Your singing tutor for instance. A perfect example! You do realize you've been taking lessons from him for how many years now and you have not yet found it in your heart to tell me who he is."

Christine inwardly sighed. Meg had pestered her about the identity of her tutor ever since she overheard one of the many singing lessons the Angel of Music gave Christine. However, the euphoria of her triumph lingered in her and she longed to share some of her joy, even if it were giving Meg the pleasure of learning the truth behind her tutor.

"Meg, come and sit. I'll reveal everything while I change." Christine said, leading Meg backstage.

The pair arrived at Christine's dressing room soon enough, however, the time their small journey took was enough to limit Meg's already little patience. Christine no sooner had turned the key in the lock that Meg pleaded "Tell me!"

"First, could you be a dear and undo the buttons on this dress? I can't quite reach them and I don't think the managers would take kindly to my ripping such an expensive costume on my debut night." Christine said, greatly enjoying Meg's frustration.

Meg stormed over to the corner where Christine leaned on the chair on her vanity table. As Meg deftly undid the buttons of the gown, Christine used the opportunity to hide the rose under a scarf lying on the table.

"There. You're free. Now speak." Meg demanded.

Christine stepped out of her dress and walked behind the dressing screen and began to remove the undergarments that accompanied the dress.

"Well, my dearest Meg, I met my tutor in the most unlikely of places ten years ago. It was just after Father died and I first came to train in the ballet corps. During that time I spent most of my free time in the chapel, mourning my Father and praying. I was so alone and I hoped and prayed with all my soul that Father's dying promise would come true. As Father lay dying, his last words to me were 'When I'm in heaven, child, I shall send the Angel of Music down to Earth to protect and teach you were I cannot.' However in those three months after he died, I was alone and had not seen or heard anything that resembled an angel in any form."

But one night, as I cried in the chapel, and lamented in my prayers that the Angel of Music had not yet come for me I heard the most angelic voice that appeared to come from my Father's picture. At first, I was startled and fled from the room. But the next night, the voice returned and I was bold enough to ask the voice to reveal itself for what it was and it replied 'Why, I'm the Angel of Music! I must apologize for my tardiness, the path from Heaven to Earth is not an easy one.' The voice and I then became very good friends and when I mentioned that my Father had hoped that I would become a renounced singer the voice offered to give me lessons. Ten years later, I still wake to the sound of the Angel of Music's songs in my head and the voice lesson that follows it."

As Christine confessed the truth to Meg, her friend's expression changed from unadulterated excitement to that of worry. When Christine stepped back out from behind the screen in plain, everyday clothes, Meg went to her and firmly clasped her shoulders and, with some difficulty, looked at her much taller friend in the eye.

"Christine. I don't mean to doubt the credibility of what you say but... are you completely sure that you have not dreamt this up? Perhaps... you imagined the Angel of Music to recover from your father's death. I know that you loved and still love your father very much."

"No Meg. I know that I have been visited by the Angel of Music."

"But Christine-"

"Meg, I don't expect you to hold my degree of faith in the Angel of Music. Lord knows it took me long enough to accept that I wasn't dreaming. Besides, you're one to talk of madness, you find it easy enough to believe in those ridiculous ghost stories." Christine lightly teased.

"But the Phantom of the Opera IS real! Nearly everyone has seen him! And, if for nothing else, how else would you explain the things only happen to the Opera Populaire?! None of the things that go on here happen in any other Opera houses!"

"Meg, I'm simply saying you have your superstitious and I have mine. Let's agree to disagree about the existence of the other's larger than life figures and not argue."

"Alright Christine, I concede that point. In fact I should be heading back to my flat. Mother will be furious if she doesn't see me in bed at a reasonable time."

Meg started for the door. As she reached for the door handle, she turned around and casually told Christine "Oh by the way in the excitement I forgot why I came to find you. You're expecting a visitor."

"A visitor?! Meg why didn't you tell me before I took off that wretched corset for God's sake!"

Meg snickered " Well you must admit, greeting such a distinguished visitor in everyday wear makes quite an amusing picture. Anyway, the Viscounte Raoul de Chagny demanded the right to see you from the managers. And, as his family is the patron of the Opera, our good managers gladly obliged. Good luck Christine! And don't do anything I wouldn't do when you're alone with your beau!" she called over her shoulder as she closed the door.

Christine sat down on the vanity chair.  _Raoul de Chagny._ That was a name she had not heard since before her Father died. Anger flared up in her.  _Damn Meg Giry_! she thought savagely. The only other person in the world who had a connection to her father and she was going to receive him in her pitiful, painfully ordinary dress. Christine didn't even have the time to change into something more formal, as it took an excruciating amount of time to put on the corset and suffocating amount of undergarments required for evening dress. All she could do was wait.

A few moments later, she heard a gentle knock at her door.


	3. Little Lotte

Christine paused for a moment, closed her eyes and drew a deep breath and remained still for a few seconds. Having resigned herself to the inevitable embarrassment, she hesitantly got up and went to the door. She opened the door to a young man with a broad smile plastered to his face. His golden blond hair was fashionable tousled, his complexion fresh as roses, and his eyes held the color of the sky on a crisp spring morning. Her visitor was the very image of a Parisian gentleman, the embodiment that male form writers of the romance genre exalted. Could this be the boy Christine knew so many years ago?

"Christine!" he exclaimed, "how long has it been?"

"Monsieur?"

"Surely you remember the young boy who rescued the red scarf you were so fond of from the sea, Mademoiselle Daaé."

"Raoul! It is you! I thought I had misheard the name of my visitor! I would never have thought you would recognize me after all these years. After all, we were but children when we met. You must tell me, how were you sure it was me on the stage and not someone else who happened to own a face similar to mine?"

"Simple induction, my dear Christine. I could never forget the bewitching voice that so enchanted me all those years. That, coupled with the charming persona you possess and the fact that Daaé is not a common name, convinced me that it had to be little Lotte up on the stage."

Christine laughed, "You remember the nickname as well?"

"My dear, I doubt that there is a single moment of those wonderful times we had together that has slipped through my memory. Remember the wonderful walks along the beach we took?"

Christine smiled fondly as she replied "Looking for treasure before hunger drove us home to have a picnic in the attic."

"Reading to each other the dark stories of the North during the evenings."

"Listening to Father played the violin..."

On this thought, Christine smiled and affectionately clasped Raoul's hand. "Raoul, I can't tell you how wonderful it is to talk to someone who shared one of the happiest times of my life."

"I, too, feel that the summer we spend together was the happiest of my boyhood. When we parted, I often wondered what became of you. A few years after, I considered looking for you, but felt too much time had gone by. Imagine my surprise and joy when I came into the opera, prepared for a rather dull evening of Carlotta's soulless singing and familiar company, and see you on the stage! You were the finest Elyssa to ever grace Hannibal!

Christine lightly blushed and looked down. "Why thank you Raoul, I'm pleased to hear you enjoyed my performance.

"Well my dear, I feel I must confess something. I visited you for a less virtuous reason than reminiscing."

Here he gave a roguish grin.

"My primarily intent was to ask you to supper."

With this admission, Christine felt her happiness to see Raoul whither away. Everything had been going so well! Now what was she to say?

Christine let her gaze drop and meet the floor.

"Raoul...I'm afraid I have to decline."

"I understand. After all this is very short notice. Tomorrow night then."

"I'm sorry to say that I shall have to decline that as well."

Raoul's smile froze on his face, and subtly, his expression changed to that of formal politeness.

"Ah. I... apologize. I should have guessed. It must be difficult to break through to success without being a kept woman of some sort. Although I have to say, I am quite jealous the fellow who you're seeing."

It was now Christine's turn to adopt a mask of cold cordially. She gave a tight smile as she replied "If I interpret your words correctly, the logical reason why I got such a coveted role was because I have a light skirt, no? The truth of the matter is quite the contrary, Monsieur le Viscount. It was through sheer chance I was able to audition earlier today. And regardless of luck, I was on that stage purely as a direct product of any talents I may possess."

Raoul cocked his head to one side. "Then, I'm afraid I don't understand, my dear. If you're not seeing anyone, why can't you share a simple repast with me?"

Christine regretted her words of earlier, now what was she to say? But, on the same note, both choices formed a double edged sword. Which was she to risk, the Angel of Music's wrath or damning rumors a scorned suitor might perpetrate in bitterness? Christine sighed. There was no other choice but to explain her unique position. She would never have guessed that she would admit her deepest, most cherished secret  _twice_  in one night.

"Raoul," she began slowly. "Do you remember Father's stories of the Angel of Music?"

"Of course! How could I forget? The Angel who visits every great musician once in their lifetime." Raoul chucked. "Other parents entertained their children with local fairy tales, but true to form, Gustave Daaé found a way to fit his muse into bedtime tales."

"I realize how unlikely and fantastic this sounds, so please keep an open mind Just before Father died, he called me over to his death bed. His last words to me were 'Christine, child. When I'm in heaven I will send you the Angel of Music. He will guide you and protect you.' A few months later, I was visited by the Angel of Music and for the past decade he has been my tutor. It was only through his lessons and instruction I was able to hone my abilities. He is the sole reason for my success. And he has promised to remain my tutor indefinitely on one condition: I devote myself entirely to music. He has made it... very clear that if I were to take a husband, or even allow someone to court me, he would ascend back into heaven, never to return. I'm sure, Raoul, you understand that I can in no way risk losing the Angel of Music's instruction."

Throughout this confession, Raoul became more relaxed and regained his good humor. "Well," Raoul said in attempted seriousness as the hint of a smile played across his face, "I'm sure the Angel won't mind if I take you out to dinner. After all, you were absolutely perfect on the stage and you deserve a little fun, if only for a few hours. I won't keep you up past a reasonable hour and I'll be sure you get home safe."

Here Raoul moved to the door.

"But Raoul the Angel is very strict! You know nothing of-" "Fifteen minutes, little Lotte! I have to go order the carriage and you must change."

Raoul turned back to grin at Christine. "Christine, I really can't find words sufficient to express how happy I am that we crossed paths again."

"Wait!" Christine cried out as the door closed.

Christine froze in naked fear and dread. Numbly, she turned around, sat at her vanity table, and buried her face in her arms. What was she to do? At the moment she desired nothing more than to accept Raoul's invitation and enjoy the evening like anyone else. Raoul was one of the only people she shared a past with, one of the only people who knew her before her Father died. The only person in this world, aside from Madame Valerius, who knew her back when she was bright and outgoing, before she retreated into a shell of shyness and sorrow. Raoul could bring back the girl who died when her Father did, Christine could feel it. And yet...

And yet a part of her was ashamed that she even considered accepting the Viscount's invitation. The Angel of Music had been by her side since she first came to the Opera. The only thing that he asked of her in exchange for lessons, companionship, and understanding was to abandon any Earthly ties of an amorous nature. To go with Raoul was to betray the Angel. She would be unable to conceal this outing from the Angel as well. Being a divine being , he knew Christine better than she knew herself and could see all. He would leave her behind forever, just as he almost did last time. The one and only other suitor who caught Christine's favor had resulted a scathing lecture and earned Christine an antagonistic month of cold silence from the Angel. Only by feverish prayer and oaths of undying loyalty did the Angel return. That month separated from the Angel of Music was a torture that she did not want to endure again. And what if this time, the Angel kept his word and left her for good? Intolerable!

Christine took the one photo she owned of her parents off the vanity table and gazed into her dead father's eyes. If he were here, he would know what to do. He would smile at her and help her achieve a balance between Raoul and the Angel. She sat like that for several moments before replacing the photo in its usual spot and rising. She could not lose the Angel of Music over the sake of a young man. The Angel of Music only appeared to a few choice artists. It would be foolish to waste such a blessing. Christine had every intention of gathering her things, wrap her fraying shawl about her, and begin her nightly journey through the streets of Paris to the flat she shared with the good Madame Valerius. But before she took two steps, a voice colder than ice radiated throughout the room and stopped her where she stood.

She could not lose the Angel of Music over the sake of a young man. Christine had every intention of gathering her things, wrapping her fraying shawl about her, and beginning her nightly journey through the streets of Paris to the apartment she shared with the good Madame Valerius, but before she took two steps, a voice colder than ice radiated throughout the room and stopped her where she stood.

"I see Mademoiselle Daaé is in a hurry to meet her new suitor."


	4. Through the Mirror

Upon the end of her daily music lesson, Christine was frequently left wondering precisely what powers over the mind the Angel possessed. Certainly such a perfect, vibrant voice, teeming with beauty that threatened to surpass that which the human mind could handle, was to be expected from a divine being. What Christine couldn't understand was how a simple word could either bring her crashing to her knees in sorrow or lift her spirit in pure joy. One would think that in all the years Christine had to adjust and become used to the voice, she would be impervious to its curious powers. But such had never been the case and tonight was no exception. The full weight of loathing and disgust was infused into this simple phrase, such that Christine felt the urge to throw herself at his feet to beg for the Angel's forgiveness, even if she had not broken her oath.

"Angel, I hear you. The moment you begin to speak, I listen with all my soul. Worry not, I will not be dining tonight with the Vicounte tonight or any night." Christine feverishly whispered.

"Ah my dear, I wish I could believe you. He is going to first fetch his carriage then is going to come back and fetch you. He was quite persistent about it. I understand why you would play the part of the coy minx. Monsiur le Viscount is a handsome boy, save his extravagant fashion, and posesses great wealth and status. Seeing the Viscounte de Chagny certainly would not be a poor decision by any judgement. Christine, I fear this is where our long journey ends, regretfully long before you even approached your full potential."

Christine froze in shock. What was the Angel saying? She... She never did any wrong! Raoul de Chagny invited her to dinner and, even if he labored under some delusion that she accepted said invitation, she already made her position perfectly clear! This was an outrage! She had not broken her oath of loyalty! She never had since the day she swore it!

Throughout her career in the Opera, Christine had seen a good many of her colleagues in the ballet whisked away on the arms of the various patrons of the Opera Populaire. Today, a good number of her peers had left the ballet corps to become respectfully married women and the majority of the ones who remained had beaus of their own. Christine, however, as per the Angel's demand, had dedicated her life to music and had dutifully turned away all who came calling since the incident, including the Viscounte de Chagny. And now _he_ accused her of being on the verge of breaking her word! She had given all for him and their shared art of music and now the Angel of Music intended to abandon her!

Christine straightened and coldly replied, "Angel. If you were indeed watching, you would have seen that I continually turned away Raoul de Chagny's advances. However, he was blinded by his desire to court me and did not see that my answer was, and still is, no. You certainly cannot hold me accountable for his blindness."

Christine was surprised to hear an undignified snort in response.

"You certainly gave the impression that you were freely available for our Viscount. After all, you were on that stage tonight _through your abilities alone_ if I heard correctly _._ "

"Then what was I to do? It is true, in my desire to retain my dignity I may have given the wrong impression. But I believe I was very clear that you forbid my dining with any man, even an old friend. Perhaps I should have told him that I was indeed a kept woman, with stronger chains than any woman has ever had. Or better yet, a slave who has not even earned the trust of the master she has served faithfully for a decade."

 "I...Christine. My apologies." the Angel said slowly. "Truthfully, I was blinded by the rage I felt when I saw that insolent boy who had the gall to address you with such familiarity, standing with you. He who felt that on the night of your glory, our night of triumph, had the right to barge into your life without so much as a proper greeting and give you an invitation to sup. But understand that I do trust you, my dear Christine, more than you know,"

Christine heard these words and realized that the voice sounded different tonight.  With this last confession, the Angel seemed almost worldly. Almost... mortal. Indeed, these words lacked the resonance of but a few minutes earlier. Surely a divine being would not feel such... mortal anger and hatred toward a member of the human race.

The curious change in the voice tonight could prove to be an omen of success. If the Angel was not entirely divine, perhaps tonight Christine would finally succeed in persuading the Angel of Music to reveal himself to her. But dare she try the Angel's already thin patience? Oh if only Christine knew where the Angel hid! It would be infinitely easier to hold this conversation with another being, rather than the air surrounding her. But she knew that looking for the place where the Angel hid would be useless. The voice spoke to her from different areas of the room each time they met. Even so, there was certainly no place in the miniscule dressing room sufficient to hid one of God's angels. But despite the memory of past failures, she glanced around the room for a hint of the Angel of Music. But such a task was folly. The room gave no sign of containing an Angel. The faded dressing screen and the small closet, the only objects that could hide anyone were barren. Christine caught sight of her own reflection in the large, tarnished gilt mirror opposite her. A familiar, faint pang of disappointment struck her! She looked so guileless! How could such a woman possibly persuade the Angel of Music to reveal himself?

"Angel, surely by now, you certainly must know of my dedication to you and the art. Over decade you have taught me. During that time I have pledged my soul to you over and over again." Christine paused then quietly continued, "As you know, over the years I've made but a solitary request, the privilege of seeing you."

                                                                                                        -----------------------

Erik froze. This last sentence may have been a simple remark to Christine but to Erik's ears, they were the stab of a knife. Yes, she had asked this of him several times and each time caused him a world of suffering. He yearned to reveal himself to his love but without the proper conditioning to accept his accursed face, such a folly would likely end in complete disaster. In the past, each and every time he had denied her request, with increasing agitation and sorrow.

He read the hope in her words. He was about to deny her once more, but he bit his tongue back. Tonight was different. They stood at a crossroads. Erik now faced the serious threat of a rival for Christine's future affections. He had also worsened things by releasing his unjust anger on Christine. He cursed himself for such a slip. The only chance for love life would ever give him and his temper might have dashed any hopes.

Erik quickly thought through the possible options present and their likely outcomes. If he dare not show himself or simply left, she would lose faith in him and run into the arms of the thrice-damned de Chagney boy. He knew with the power of his voice, he could charm her into forgetting this request for the night. However, she would not forget forever and would ask again, likely at their next lesson. He thought through similar possibilities of remaining in the shadows, all likely ending in disaster. There was only one plausible option that may yet save his plan.

Erik sighed and quietly asked "You truly wish to see me?"

"Angel, we have known each other for many years and yet we have never truly met. Please, reveal yourself to me."

"Very well Christine," Erik sighed, "At last you shall know me, _see why in shadow I hide. Look at your face in the mirror, I am there inside_." He said, fading his words into perfect song.

Erik reluctantly felt his heart fill with joy as Christine's face lit up. Christine affected him so. Quite against his will, this young maid, almost twenty years his junior, held the key to his soul. A simple smile was enough to sap his formidable strength, her laugh had pushed him to his knees on more than one occasion. _Christine Daaé will be the death of me_ was a thought seldom absent in Erik's mind when he was near her. Her happiness was his happiness, her sorrow was his sorrow. Perhaps this was the right thing to do after all? Perhaps his sweet Christine would see past the wretched exterior with no conditioning needed? Perhaps... No. Cold, uncharitable reason flooded back into Erik's mind. Christine's proximity yielded the predictable, unwanted emotion of hope. Hope was made for the luckier specimens of the human race. Hope was an annoyance to Erik, nothing but a prelude to bitter disappointment. He quelled these rising emotions with the ugly truth: Christine had no knowledge yet of the monster who wore the mask of a gentleman. Unless he tread with great caution, his love would run from his life. Christine was now a hair's breath away from the mirror.

Erik saw her smile softly. "At last," she whispered. This smile was the undoing of his controlled emotions. His chest felt fit to burst with the joy this simple smile brought him.

"Come to your Angel of Music." Erik breathed as he effortlessly opened the mechanism of the tarnished mirror and guided Christine into the labyrinth he called home.


	5. Thoughts

Erik gently led Christine down the corridor behind her dressing room.  _This was supposed to happen under happier circumstances!_  he mourned quietly. But at least she was here and he now had a fighting chance. But what to do from this point forward? He and Christine had never spoken without the shadow of a lie hanging over them. She knew nothing of Erik's existence until mere seconds ago! What was he to tell her when she would inevitably ask for the truth? What was he to do when they got to his home under the Opera? Oh God! Erik suddenly realized the state of his underground home. He would never have guessed that he was to have company for the first time in the many years living under the Opera and was woefully caught unprepared. Thankfully, Erik innately was neat and kept his living quarters reasonably tidy, but nevertheless, it was a bachelor's home and could do with cleaning. But, more importantly, what to do with Christine? Make polite conversation for a few hours then send her on her way? No, such would be absurd. Erik had an unforeseen chance to win his love's affections, the least he could do was to make the most of it. Time lost all meaning below the Earth. He certainly could keep her in his home for a few days at least and make the most of the borrowed time. Erik knew he could once more take advantage of his voice and keep her suspicions at bay. He'd accomplished far more difficult tasks using his voice before.

Erik had always been well aware of the power his voice held over people. From an early age, he had trained his voice to give him equal footing in this cruel world that could not see past the horror of his face. The mask he wore to cover his disfigurement was only marginally better than his naked visage, in the sense that people tolerated his presence momentarily rather than chasing him away immediately. The porcelain mask put people on edge and set an unbreakable barrier of suspicion and dislike. But his voice! The one redeeming aspect of the unsightly carcass he was forced to call a body. With the power of his voice, he could have the most stubborn merchant haggle to the price Erik wanted, the crowd of jeering children run behind their mother's skirts, and send the policeman who shadowed Erik out of suspicion on his merry way.

Once, in Persia, the sultana insisted on showing Erik the prized royal cobras were fed. The keeper placed a live bird into the cage of a magnificent specimen, imported from the jungles of India. Immediately, the unfortunate bird sensed the presence of the reptile and desperately tried to escape its fate, frantically seeking an exit where there was none. A sort of cat and mouse game was played between the snake and the bird until the fatal moment when the bird locked eyes with the dancing cobra. The bird was forced to placidly watch as the snake made the strike that would end its life.

In his mind, Erik had always used this as an appropriate figure for the power his voice had over the mind. As he had expected, it had been almost too easy to lure his Angel of Music behind the mirror. For a wild moment, he was afraid that she would request his presence outside the mirror, in her dressing room. It would not have been an unwise decision in any sense. But  _thank God_ she was not immune to his voice. If she had refused to follow him behind the mirror, all his hopes and dreams would have died tonight. Because of that fool de Chagny. That boy.

Without realizing it, Raoul de Chagny had caused a world of anger and pain for Erik. Tonight was to have been the start of Erik's plan to win Christine's heart, which would have been difficult enough without the unseen variable of an  _attractive_ young man who  _shared part of Christine's self-described happiest moments._  Erik had seen the de Chagnys in their box across the theater and seen the young Viscount staring open mouthed at Christine, threatening to spill over the edge of his box in his eagerness. But then again, so had every other young man in the theater. He cursed his stupidity. He should have foreseen the possibility of the Viscount de Chaney inquiring after Christine. Like any person connected to the Opera Populaire, Erik knew that the de Chagny family was  _th_ e patrons of the Opera and that the managers often times went out of their way to accommodate the de Chagnys. On one memorable occasion that had caused Erik much amusement, the managers were extraordinarily crossed to refunding an entire box moments before a performance for the use of an exceptionally large group of unexpected guests of the de Chagnys. Why would they deny a simple request such as allowing the youngest de Changy to meet the Populaire's newest stuff leading lady? Erik could have prevented the meeting with some simple ventriloquism, distracting the Viscount until it was too late to meet Christine for instance. But in his happiness, Erik had forgotten to make certain that no unforeseen independent variables would enter his plan.

Instead, as he did every night, Erik had made his way to Christine's dressing room to wait for her to leave the Opera for the night. Then he would make sure his Angel got home safely, unseen from the shadows. Erik knew first-hand what the outside world was capable of and had heard the ballet corps' stories of the men who laid in wait outside the Opera for an unsuspecting victim to enter their midst. Erik swore that this cruel world would not crush Christine's gentle soul if he could help it. She would never know how many times he had quietly knocked out the men who lay in wait for her, how many times he stopped the would be rapists. To the best of Erik's knowledge, Christine didn't realize she attracted quite a bit more unwanted attention than the average woman as she made her way around Paris.

But imagine, imagine Erik's surprise as he came to her dressing room to see a young man asking her to dine with him! Imagine the shock! Tonight was supposed to be for Christine and her thoughts! The rose, a carefully calculated move, was supposed to occupy her thoughts for the night! She was supposed to be filled with delight and astonishment as she received the first of what would be many gifts from the "Angel of Music," each more worldly than the last, until she guessed the secret herself with no intervention from him. Christine was more than clever enough to do it. The only reason she didn't induct the truth yet was because Erik kept up the illusion far, far better than anyone would think a man capable of.

But then the boy introduced new variables into her thoughts. Tonight, Christine's head was supposed to be filled with thoughts of joy, not dreams of love. Subsequently, Erik had overreacted and unjustly accused. And now, he was paying the price for the rashness of his actions.

**A/N: Sorry for such a short chapter with such little action! But the thing is, I've always wanted to explore the rationale for various actions in the cannon story. I mean, in the context of the musical, why would Erik suddenly decide to reveal himself? Obviously Raoul was the trigger, but how long was he planning on hiding? When did he plan to show himself to the good Mlle. Daaé? And how, as originally intended? And, as a few people have complained than the story is too slow so far, if I jumped into the area where I plan to diverge from the cannon story, it wouldn't make any sense because you wouldn't understand the rationale for any of the actions taken. Patience, my friends, is a virtue. Anyway, I'll try to upload the next chapter in a relatively short period of time. How will Christine react to her shattered perception of the Angel of Music? Will there be another revealing, perhaps of a face? All good things in good time.**


	6. Into Darkness

Christine nervously glanced up at the man by her side. Was this truly her Angel of Music? When she had idly fantasized about the day she would finally gaze at the true form of the Angel, she had always imagined a benevolent figure. An Angel decked in a pallet of heaven's colors, as befitting the beauty of the images the voice invoked in the mind. This man, however, gave no appearance of being affiliated in any way with a kindly Angel of Music. Indeed, this man's image conjured up an image of an Avenging Angel, sent down from Heaven to punish those who dared defy the Almighty.

In the dim light emitting from a small lantern, Christine was just able to make out the man's face. She was mildly surprised at the almost entirely opposite appearance the man offered from that of the man who Christine had conversed with mere moments ago. While Raoul was the sincere charm of boyish grace, this man was the epitome of masculine beauty. His face was a study in sharp angles and linear proportions, the smooth translucency of his skin interrupted only by the sharp outcropping of cheekbone, which led the eye to a strong jawline and chin. A piercing dark eye accentuated this visage, along with a head of black hair, severely combed back. Even the man's body contributed to this impression. He was impressively tall, at least fifteen centimeters above Christine, his lean body cloaked in a black cape over evening dress. Evening dress?  _Was he among the faces in the audience earlier tonight?_ Christine wondered.

The pair walked in silence through an odd passage, composed of scaffolding and odd bits of wood. The man broke this tense silence saying "I suppose this is a bit of a shock for you, Christine. The truth of things is often disappointing."

_The understatement of the nineteenth century_ , Christine dryly thought. This man had masqueraded as the promised Angel of Music for over a decade. He had earned her trust entirely and she often had confided her deepest worries and fears in him. And yet all that time he maintained the farce, apparently with no remorse or guilt. She longed to ask him these questions and demand an answer, but Christine was all too aware of her surroundings. She knew nothing of this man who gripped her hand. If she made him angry, she would be powerless and unable to defend herself. No one would hear her here, wherever she was. At best, he could easily abandon her to endlessly search for a way back to the Opera. Or even worse, he was obviously more powerful than she. If this man decided to force himself upon her, Christine would be unable to stop him. No, at the moment, it would be far wiser to keep this man in a good temper and demand answers later.

"Why didn't you show yourself to be before?" Christine asked quietly.

A flutter of fear raced through Christine as the man's jaw tightened at this question.

"That, Christine, is a question with many answers. One day, perhaps, you will know why."

Christine silently contemplated this. What to say? How to reply? She tried a different topic.

"Where are we going?"

"To the only place that remotely resembles anything fit for a lady in this black place. My house, if such a place can be called so."

Christine stiffened and slowed her pace. His house? What plans did he have for her? A cold chill crept up her back as she guessed at his motives. Oh God! Why had she ever gone with him?

The man felt Christine pull back. Immediately, he stopped and released her hand. "Christine," he quietly said, "You are in no danger here. You have nothing to fear from me."

However, these reassuring words did not have their intended effect on Christine. For as he spoke, he turned to face Christine and, for the first time, she saw the man's full image. Her hand flew to cover her mouth in silent horror as she saw that the previously hidden side of the man's face was covered by a white mask. What sort of man was her false Angel?

The man saw this reaction and frowned. He turned back around and sullenly added "You are in no danger, as long as you do not touch the mask."

He then took hold of Christine's wrist once more and resumed their brisk pace. The silence was unbroken for innumerable moments. Then, just as quickly as it was birthed, the silence between them was broken.

The man turned to Christine and quietly said "This is where the journey becomes difficult, my dear." He led her a bit farther and lifted a section of floor to reveal a small staircase which seemingly endlessly spiraled down into the dark.

"My home lies five levels below the Opera. It's quite a walk and this is the most direct route. Let me know if you get tired. There are slower, less tiring ways of reaching it."

With these words, he led her down the staircase. The pressing dark awakened a subtle claustrophobia in Christine and the silence, save the sound of their footsteps, pressed on her. Not only was she to be trapped by the walls, but now countless layers of earth and stone were to separate her from the surface! She swallowed her panic at this unpleasant thought. Oh how she wanted to turn back and reascend into the world of light! This was no place for Christine! She was a child of the sunshine and open air! And this man, who was he? This strange, masked man who, for some unknown reason, lived beneath the Earth and had tutored her for over a decade. What motivations could he possibly possess? He filled her with fear and yet... and yet a part of her was intrigued by this man against her better judgment. No, he wasn't the Angel of Music but... In a way she couldn't understand, she willingly followed him into the unknown, to learn more about this man who had been by her side for years, hidden in the shadows.


	7. The Lake

Christine thought the staircase would never end. The blasted thing just kept spiraling down further and deeper into the dark. Did this man make this exhausting journey everyday for ten years just to tutor her? How on Earth did he manage it? And why would he do such a thing? Christine was far from being someone worthy of such devotion. Christine was just a ballet girl. True, her voice was good but it certainly was not spectacular. Her musical abilities were above average but certainly not of notable magnitude. She inwardly sighed. What was happening? But an hour ago, Christine was in bliss that she had pleased the hard to please Angel of Music and was rejoicing in the triumph that was Hannibal. How could a simple hour so alter the course of one's life?

Finally the staircase came to an end and Christine was surprised to find that the smooth wood had transitioned into a surface of roughly hewn stone under her feet. More than once she stumbled on the jagged surface that harshly sloped even further underground. Was it even possible to go from bad to worse surroundings? The darkness was absolute such that the light of the lantern formed a fragile cocoon of protection around them that was continuously threatened to be swallowed up by the dark.

Christine violently shivered and drew her thin shawl around her. Any sort of gradient from the comfortably cool air of the passages to an unforgivable chill had been curiously absent. Sensing Christine's discomfort, the man turned around and said "Forgive me Christine, I did not have the foresight to see that you're not used to these caves as I am and would be cold. I don't want you to become ill on my account." With this, he deftly undid the buttons on his cape and draped its blessed warmth around Christine. "I hope that this is sufficient." For just a moment too long, he looked at Christine with undisguised affection and tenderness. Then, almost as if he were ashamed, he quickly looked away and said "We must hurry, I will not have your voice suffer from prolonged exposure to the cold."

Had Christine imagined the look of tenderness in his eyes, his voice as he spoke? Or did he really feel such fondness toward her? She mentally shrugged, she would have time enough to pinpoint these nuances later. She drew the clock more closely around her and discreetly lifted the fabric to her face. The cloak held an intoxicating masculine aroma and...Ink? An odd addition yet nevertheless very pleasing to the senses.

Finally, the floor abruptly leveled off and Christine heard the unmistakable sound of water. She soon found herself standing at the edge of a vast lake. She had often heard stories about the Opera Populaire being built over an underground lake but had discarded it with the 'Phantom' as yet another fanciful product of the superstitious employees. And yet the evidence lay but a few meters in front of her. The man gently released her hand and placed the lantern near her feet. "I'm afraid I rarely use the staircase to get down here. I wasn't expecting you to accompany me tonight so I didn't place the boat near this exit. Wait here while go fetch it." and on that note, he walked off into the dark. Just before he was entirely out of the light of the lantern, Christine faintly heard him mutter "What a time to lose the damned thing." She smiled to herself. She didn't know what made this small gesture amusing to her but for one reason or another the idea of the great and feared Phantom of the Opera frustrated over misplacing something as a result of her was almost laughable. In addition, seeing her Angel of Music humanized in this small way was touching. Although a small grain of fear still remained in her, she was eager to learn about the man behind the Angel of Music. What sort of a man was he? Someone who knew an area of the Populaire she didn't know existed a few hours ago, someone who made his home under the ground, someone who sounded like an angel...

In this middle of this train of thought, unexpectedly a drop of icy water fell on Christine's head. Startled, she jumped away from the offending area and violently shivered. The air was frigidly cold and the dark stone around her pulled any stray traces of warmth from the air. She sighed, her breath misting in the damp, stagnant air. Even the cloak, a source of warmth earlier when she was moving, was rapidly losing its heat. Christine sank into a crouch and tried to keep warm as best as she could.

This is how he found her when he returned, huddled near whatever weak warmth the lantern provided, shivering violently, teeth chattering. Christine heard him call her name and turned to look at him. The man quickly rowed the boat to the shore and deftly leaped to the stone floor. The man strode over to Christine, knelt down in front of her, and gently grasped her shoulders. "Christine I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have left you. I don't notice the cold anymore and keep forgetting that you're entirely unused to it. Please forgive me." Christine gently smiled "There's nothing to forgive. I don't know the terrain as you do and likely would have fallen in the lake in my ignorance. Besides, I was tired after the long walk and wanted to rest anyway." This last sentence was an entire lie on Christine's part, if anything she would have liked nothing better than to have gone with him. But the statement had its intended effect as she saw some of the tension in the man's shoulders ease.

The man stood up and offered Christine his hands. She gladly accepted and grasped both firmly as he helped her to her feet. Christine stretched, stiff from sitting in that cramped position for God knows how long, as the man picked up the lantern and fastened it to the front of a small gondola. Christine followed him to the edge of the water and waited as he fussed with something inside. Finally he turned to Christine and offered her his hand. She stepped into the boat, grateful for the man steadying it for her as it threatened to spill over as Christine sat down. He then jumped into the boat himself and began to row the gondola across the dark waters to what waited for Christine on the other side.


	8. The Lake Part II

Erik quietly poled the gondola across the Stygian waters that protected his home. He glanced down at his love and saw that she was leaning over the edge of the boat, searching for a glimpse their destination. She stopped shivering at least, he noted. He thought himself foolish when he lavishly draped the gondola with thick rugs and pillows how long ago, but as with anything, he could not restrain himself when he saw the opportunity to create beauty. Even with an object as inconsequential as this gondola, he could not rest until even the wood was generously carved and draped until it resembled something directly out of those he saw in Venice. No, such a comparison was unjust to his work. Indeed, his gondola outshone the best he saw in his travels, it was a work of beauty, fitting an emperor. Of course, it’s beauty was even more improved with his love reclined upon it. He smiled at the sight. As wrought with danger this visit was, Erik found that he could not bring himself to regret bringing her bellow the Opera. _I could die happily right here and now_ , he thought to himself. The feeling of her close to him, the feel of her skin… It was so much better than any of his dreams and fantasies. In these few moments, he had never experienced such joy… Or terror.

As much happiness Christine’s presence brought Erik, every moment was torture, a sweeter torture than he had ever known. He was constantly terrified that he would say or do something that would frighten her away forever. Although Erik was excellent at intimidation and extortion, his interpersonal skills left quite a bit to be desired. He was trained from birth to simply survive; he had no idea how to proceed in communicating with the intention of anything but ensuring his own existence. Erik had no idea how to create friendship, or even more importantly, attraction. Although he had observed people and made notes on the art of charm, studies and experience were two entirely different concepts. In addition, he was well aware his tempter was another barrier to overcome. He never before saw fit to control himself, what if Christine said something that woke the beast within? What if he could not control himself? Erik steadied his hands as panic threatened to consume him. There were so many unpredictable scenarios! He could not possibly foresee and prepare himself for each one on such short notice! And Christine… Christine was both the balm for and the source of his fraying nerves. The more time he spent actually in Christine’s presence as himself, not as the Angel of Music, strengthened his feelings more and more. The longing for her to be his was overpowering! It had never been this strong! But, unrealizing it, she tore down every protection Erik created around his mind. Aside from when he lost his tempter, Erik always was in complete control of his actions. Every move was calculated for his maximum benefit and look at him now. Erik never acted rash until tonight. Tonight was the first time in his thirty-five years of existence that he acted impulsively! And if the way he acted around Christine was any example, his list of impulsive actions was to grow at an alarming rate during his time with Christine. He shook his head. Imagine! Being so bold as to grasp her like that! It was a miracle that she did not flitch! He was unclean, revolting, surely any rational person could sense that and he had been dangerously close to, dare he think it, hugging her. The sight of Christine, cold and vulnerable in the dark, had been nearly too much for him to bear. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to sweep her into his arms and ensure her health and happiness. It was a miracle in itself that he chose the lesser of two evils and simply clutched her shoulders. He would have try and exercise better control of himself in the future. Of course, she did not flinch… Surely that was a good sign as any? And he did plan of keeping her in his home for an extended period of time, and surely she had desires as any woman? Perhaps…

            No! He tightened his grip on the pole and leaned against it. He would not think such thoughts about his angel! No! God help him, what was he thinking? Such a foolish notion, he would not taint his Christine! And, even so, she did not know what lay beneath the mask! Even for all his plans and schemes, he could not control the revulsion she was very likely to have once she knew!

“Are you alright?”

A gentle voice broke into Erik’s thoughts and his gaze snapped up to meet Christine’s. She had gently extended one arm out towards him with a concerned expression. Was he alright? A laughable notion. He felt as if he were to go mad!

Ah. He realized he had stopped poling the gondola for who knows how long and stood against it for dear life.

“I’m perfectly fine, just… Lost in thought” he smoothly replied and with that resumed their journey across the lake.

Thankfully, he was able to force himself not to lose himself to troublesome thoughts for the rest of the journey. Instead, he simply admired his beautiful Christine. Ah, poems were sung and stories wrought about so many women throughout history, but none held a candle to Christine. She would put Helen of Troy to shame! The way her hair fell in loose curls across her slender back, the deepness of her turquoise eyes, her full lips… She personified everything he found beautiful in this world, embodied everything a woman should be. But such was not the depth of Christine’s beauty, where most women’s beauty stopped with their bodies, Christine’s splendor extended to her soul. From his many studies of her, he was convinced that she was among the most benevolent and kind souls to grace humanity. She was everything he loved in the world and everything that had been barred from him throughout his life. How could she ever love a monster as he? His hands began to tremble once more and despair threatened once again to seize control and choke him. He had to try. He had to do that much. Without Christine, Erik had no more reason to live. She was his only hope at salvation. Without her, the world was barren and empty. She was his only chance for happiness. He tightened his jaw. Erik would make this work or he would die trying. He would have a happy ending with Christine. If he was careful, he would win the most invaluable prize the world ever offered.

Finally they came to the shoreline. Erik guided the gondola between a narrow crack in the stone and helped Christine out. As he tied the gondola to a small iron ring hidden in the dark floor, he heard Christine ask “Did you say that you’re taking me to your house?”  
He twisted to face her and saw that she had the most adorable confused look on her face. He could not help but smile at her expression.

“Yes, I did.”

  
“But… Forgive me, but I don’t see anything resembling a home.”

His smile morphed into a smirk. He did not fault her for her confusion at all, it was easy to miss the opening in the jagged rock that surrounded them, as it should have been, he had not been known as the King of Traps in Persia for nothing!

“That, my dear, is the beauty of camouflage.”

With that, he took up the lantern once more, gently clasped Christine’s hand once more, and led her to burrow  he called home.

**A/N: I know that many people wanted Christine to see the lair in this chapter but I love writing Erik’s thoughts too much. It was far too easy to slip in chapter of internal musings when he would be doing repetitive work all too conductive to deep thought. Besides, I didn’t want to write a paragraph like** “Christine looked over the dark water as the man silently poled the gondola along.” **If you enjoyed, please leave a comment, I welcome all corrections, suggestions, and feedback. Or, better yet, give that kudo button a tickle. Thanks!**


	9. The Lair

Christine watched as the man rose and began to walk into the dark, illuminated only by the lantern’s dim light.  She heard him say over his shoulder “This way, Christine”. Not wanting to be consumed by the pressing dark, she quickly moved towards him, stumbling over the rough stone more than once as she shortened the distance between them. The man turned toward the coarse walls and held the light up to them, searching for something as they walked. Suddenly, he stopped and turned to Christine and said “We’re here, my dear,” gesturing to the dark cave walls as he spoke. Christine scrutinized the area to which he pointed out. This was his house? There was nothing she could see remotely unique about this portion. It was as jagged and irregular as its brothers surrounding it. Confused, she looked to the man and asked “I’m afraid I don’t understand. How is this your house?”

He smiled at her and replied “Let me show you.” He then took her hand once more and led her to the wall and added “It’s a bit of a tight fit at first.” He twisted his body and angled it between a narrow crack in the rock, carefully slipping between the entirely unremarkable fissure. Christine followed suite and allowed herself to be consumed by the dark stone.

After a few uncomfortable seconds of moving in this graceless way, chafed front and back by the jagged walls, the small passage finally opened into yet another stone passage. Christine felt a small prick of annoyance. Her former angel certainly seemed to be a paranoid man, taking so many precautions to hide his house. After yet another walk surrounded by the silent stone, the pair reached the end of the constricting passage and stopped in front of a door demurely placed in the stone, as if it had been there since nature created this underground world.  Christine looked on in awe. This man certainly had an eye for singular beauty. From what Christine saw in the dim light, this commonplace every day object most people didn’t give a second thought to was painstakingly carved with attention to the minutest details. If this one thing was so lavishly adorned, Christine was eager to see what the house had in store. The man reached for the handle and pushed the door open, and gestured for Christine to go inside. Christine happily obliged and stepped into the light spilling out of the doorway.

She was immediately hit with the potent smells of candlewax and ink. It was not difficult to see where the wax smell originated; the entire room was teeming with thick candles that cast the room in a warm, golden glow. As her eyes better adjusted to the brighter sources of light after spending so long in the dark, she took in the details of the room with awe. The small parlor was adorned with such an array of different styles and items that one could not say exactly which theme was followed. A large organ, encircled in scattered sheet music, served as the centerpiece of the room. Opposite this was an elaborate Parisian sofa with a carved table in front of it. A Grecian sofa lay in the corner, surrounded by various books discarded on the floor. Various sumptuous rugs rested on the dark floor. The entire room was lined with curious cabinets, the top half of which solely housed books and the bottom half apparently serving as a way to display and store various curiosities.

As Christine gazed about her in wonder, she heard the man say “If the look on your face is a reliable indicator, I assume you enjoy what you see.” She turned to look at him and saw that he removed his heavy overcoat and hat. He reached for Christine and asked “May I take the cloak?” She shrugged it off and handed it to him and rejoiced in the warmth of the house. As he hung it up on a hook by the door along with his other outerwear she asked “How is your house so warm? I don’t see a fireplace or stove anywhere.”

“It’s quite simple, really. About two floors directly above us are the opera house boilers. The double seal that protects the foundations is essentially hollow. I created a system of piping in this seal that goes to and from my house from the boiler room. I placed a small device there that pulls the cold air from my house. As the air is being pulled out, this creates a vacuum that pulls the hot air from the boiler room to replace it.” He shrugged. “Of course, it’s not a perfect system by any means. I have no way to control the temperature at this stage and it’s dependent on many independent, daily factors.”

“That is amazing! I’ve never heard of such a thing, how did you think of it?”  
“Necessity is the mother of invention, my dear. I was tired of not being able to work comfortably.”

As the man spoke, Christine took the opportunity to look at him better in the better light. The mask did not look nearly as ominous as it had earlier. Aside from giving the right side of his face a permanently stern expression, it intrigued Christine more than anything. Why would such a man hide his face? He certainly could not be a wanted man; he would have hid his entire face if he did not want to be recognized. Why else would a man hide half of their face? _Perhaps he’s simply eccentric._ Christine thought. He had not given Christine any cause for alarm yet. In fact, he had been more of a gentleman than some of those in high society who Christine had the misfortune to meet over her years at the opera house.

“You certainly have a beautiful house, I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.”  
“Well, I would be quite surprised if you had met another person who made their residence in a cave.”

“No, that’s not what I meant at all! Although your house is quite clever and unique, I was referring to the way you arranged the room. Where did you ever get so many things?”

“To what are you referring to? The knick-knacks or the furniture? The curios I acquired on my many trips abroad in my youth.” He smiled “When I say that each has a story behind it, I don’t use the phrase as a poetic device. Most of the furniture I built myself, based on either what I saw abroad or my own ideas.”

The pair continued conversing in this fashion, an easy camaraderie between them. Christine learned much about his life, the places he visited, the various skills he picked up, and what brought him to the opera house. They discussed music, art, and the humanities and Christine found that they shared many of the same ideas and thoughts on the subjects. Comfortable conversation passed between them until Christine asked what the man’s name was.

“Why do you want to know?” He sharply retorted.

 Christine paused in shock. She did not know such a simple question would elicit such a response from him. Personable and friendly mere moments ago, he now glared at down at her as if challenging her to say the wrong thing. She silently cursed herself. Christine forgot that she did not truly know this man who had mislead her for nearly a decade. She needed to be careful; she did not yet know him and could not trust him. If she said the wrong thing, she had no idea of what he might do. Christine had to flatter and please him, if only for her own ensured safety. She slowly began “Well, although I didn’t know you were behind the Angel of Music until tonight, I feel that we’ve known each other for as long as you’ve taught me. And, I’m unsure how to address you; I would like to put a name to the man behind the voice.”  
The man pondered this for a moment.

“Erik,” he slowly replied . “You may call me Erik.”


	10. Unexpected Events

Erik observed Christine's reaction from the corner of his eye. She was now the second living person in the world who knew Erik's name. Certainly a name, among those who were not cursed with the burden Erik was forced to bear, was a trivial thing, a topic of light conversation. But to Erik, it was more than that. Erik was the identity he created for himself, his birth name cast into the abyss that defined his old life. Erik was the individual who would never again be enslaved, the person who would never more bear the taunts and insults that haunted his early years. Erik, the name most fitting for an opera ghost. Although those fools did not see it, he was the indeed honorable ruler of the opera house. If it wasn't for he, the Opera Populaire would have fallen into disgrace long ago. Without the little suggestions and guidance he gave the managers from time to time, the Populaire might as well have been a dance hall for all those fools knew about music. Yes, Erik fit him quite well. But, for once in his life, he hoped for something that he never before sought: approval.

Much to Erik's relief, he saw Christine smile. "Erik," she said. "It's a pleasure to formally meet you Mousuir Erik, ancien ange de la musique."  
"Let me assure you the pleasure is all mine, La Daaé." he replied with a smile.

"Erik, I am quite curious, do you come from the northern countries?"

Erik paused in surprise. That question was unexpected to say the least. What would prompt such a thought in Christine? He didn't resemble the Slavic people in the remotest sense, unless… He caught a gleam of excitement in his Swedish songbird. Of course. She hoped that they shared a common origin. Briefly, he considered lying and creating a commonality between them, but thought the better of it. After lying to her for a decade, the least he could do was give her a little truth, especially in such a trivial matter.

"Unfortunately, no. Erik is a name of my own choosing."  
Christine's expression morphed into that of puzzlement. He saw her open her mouth to ask a follow up question, but for some reason, she quietly sank back into the sofa. The pair sat in silence like this for a moment. This unsettled Erik. It was easy enough to be close to Christine while idle conversation was passed between them. It was pleasant, a foreign feeling to Erik, and almost made him forget he was actually in the presence of his Angel. Now that awareness flooded into Erik in a rush of nerves and anxiety. Now what was he to do? Everything within reason threatened to flood out of his mind in a panic. He had no experience in dealing with unwanted emotion and was entirely unused to being dependent on another person. Whenever Erik did communicate with other people, he was used to being the one in control. For the majority of his life, he lived in an emotionless world that was colored only by various forms of anger and rage. But everything changed when he met Christine. Now he was the dependent one made a slave by emotion.

But what was he to do? He had to impress Christine, had to make her want to return to him of her own free will. Sitting in a puddle of anxiety on the sofa was not going to help matters any. The voice of reason returned to Erik's thoughts. The house. Yes, that was it. He would show her his house. Although it was nowhere near perfection and was in no way close to his ultimate goals for it, his house was impressive enough for the average pair of eyes. Erik stood up, turned to Christine and asked "Would you like to see the rest of my home? It is a curious thing."

Much to his relief, she stood up to follow him. For a fleeting moment, his attention wavered away from the proposed tour. Christine was so unapologetically beautiful. It would be so easy for him to… He flinched and shook off the offending thought as best as he could. He quickly turned away to collect his thoughts. What was wrong with him? This was the second time this evening he considered sullying his Angel. Could he not be alone with her for an extended period of time without straying?  _This traitorous body._  He thought.  _This arborous thing wants to ruin me once more._  He turned back to Christine and faced her perplexed expression. He put on a tight smile. "This way my dear." he said as he began to walk towards the dining room.

Unfortunately, there was not a great deal in Erik's home to occupy a significant amount of time. Erik showed her the dining room, the kitchen, and, in pure desperation, his bedroom. He especially regretted this last choice, as it led his thoughts to a path he tried to avoid entirely. However, both a blessing and a disaster occurred when he heard one of his many alarms unexpectedly malfunctioned. The insistent, high pitched buzz, much to Erik's amusement, startled Christine terribly. She turned to him with wide eyes, asking  _what in Heaven's name_  that horrible noise was. By the time he located exactly which wire was causing the noise, Christine had curled up in a ball on sofa, trying to block out the noise as best as she could. "I'm afraid I have to go and make some light repairs, my dear. I'll be back shortly." he said over the din. "Please, may I go with you? This buzzing is driving me mad." After much debating, the time of which would have given him ample time to have found the offending spot, repaired it, and returned, he found himself reluctantly leading Christine along the narrow path along the lake.  _Of course something would have had to have gone wrong. There can be no other way in my life,_  he bitterly thought. Finally, after much strained searching along the dark wall the wire was strung along, Erik found the spot. In one way or another, likely when Erik had led Christine to his home, the wire had been crushed and lay connected only by a few brittle strands of copper. Erik signed. He would have to shut off the electricity entirely before this could be repaired. He turned to Christine. "Apologies, my dear. This is more complex than I originally hoped. Wait here, I'll be back momentarily." And with that, for the second time that night, he left her standing in the dark.

Presently he returned. Thankfully, it had not taken too long and Christine as chilled as she had been last time. Although that would have been a trick. After seeing Christine's reaction earlier to the unfamiliar cold, Erik had made sure to supply her with his warmest cloak and gloves and even relinquished his overcoat for her use. The repair itself was quick, but nevertheless, an experience he could have gone without. Finally, he was able to turn the electricity back on and wearily asked Christine "How does tea sound?" She murmured her agreement and Erik began to lead her back. However, there was nothing in this world that could have prepared either of them for the coming moments. Christine, in her inexperienced with the jagged terrain of the caves, tripped and unbalanced her and sent her falling into the bitter lake waters.

**A/N: Eh, sorry if this is a bit sloppy. I got sick the day after Halloween (yay handing out candy to germy little kids) and a) I couldn't write on Sunday like I normally do and b) I just wrote this today and my brain's still a little fuzzy. Anyway, PLEASE let me know what you thought about Chapter 10, or as I like to call it, Erik and the No Good, Awful, Very Bad Evening. Seriously, even if it's just like "Oh this bit works and this doesn't work" or "I liked this bit" you have no idea how much feedback means to me. Writing does NOT come naturally to me and I need to know how I'm going. Thanks!**


	11. Realization

The only thought that permeated Christine’s mind was the skin-biting cold that now surrounded her. The chill of the icy waters had shocked her system and knocked the breath out of her as all warmth was pulled into the waters surrounding her. It was too cold even to think about breathing. No, it was not the pursuit of air that drove Christine’s instincts to find the surface of the lake, but rather the need to escape the acute cold. Her feet quickly found purchase on the lake’s bottom and she quickly broke the surface of the lake with a gasp. As she stood shivering in the chest high water, too cold in that moment even to move to shore, she heard a voice ring out. “Christine!” Erik’s voice reached her and carried with it a world of relief. He pushed through the water to her side and grasped her shoulders. “Christine, are you injured?” he asked urgently.

“I’m alright, just cold.” She replied through chattering teeth “My God, I never thought that there would be anything in this world colder than Sweden in winter.”

“Forgive my boldness, but you are chilled to the bone.” He replied as he pulled her close and began to make their way through the water to the shore.

The short walk back to Erik’s house seemed to last a lifetime to Christine. Never before had she been so thoroughly frozen. _I’ll never have cause to complain again when the fire takes a while to start_ , Christine dryly thought. The heavy, now waterlogged, overcoat and cloak Erik insisted she wear only made the chill worse, pulling any stray body warmth away from Christine.

Finally, the pair came to the house. Christine had never before been so grateful for the comforts of civilization. Erik helped her remove the soaked coat and cape, and said “Even if I live under the opera, I have a fully functioning bathroom. Please draw yourself a bath so you don’t become ill after that accident. I’m afraid I don’t have any women’s clothes in my possession, but I’ll leave my robe on the sofa for your use. Feel free to use anything I have. I’ll go up to your dressing room and fetch you some warm clothes.”

Christine bit her lip. It was lovely of Erik to offer to do such a thing for her, but he was forgetting to attend to his own needs.

Christine studied the organ behind Erik with great interest as she quietly said “Erik, you are drenched as well. I… I would not want you to become ill yourself on my account.”

Erik snorted. “Christine, all I need is a change of clothes and I’ll be fine. You on the other hand are soaked to the skin. I will not have us triumph before all of Paris only to lose it all over a cold. Please ensure this does not happen and take a bath.” He gave a tight shrug. “Besides, I’m used to the cold of the caves.” He stood firmly, looking down at her, as if daring her to oppose him.

It was too trivial of a matter to argue over and Christine was too uncomfortable to care. If he wanted to make himself sick, that was his affair, not hers. She quietly nodded and began to walk towards the back of the house.

* * *

 

The bath was heaven on Earth. Christine could not remember a time where the warmth of the water had been so satisfying. But it was over far too soon for Christine. As much as she would have liked to, she could not spend an extended period of time in the warm water and she did not want to be caught in such a compromising position when Erik returned. With a sigh, she stepped out of and drained the bath, wrapped a towel around herself, and went to fetch the robe. As promised, a luxurious robe hung over the back of the sofa which Christine held up for examination. As with anything Erik possessed, it was finely made, some Eastern design that Christine could not recognize. She eagerly wrapped herself in it, relishing its warmth. Standing in a warm house after a refreshing bath, wrapped in a snug robe… This was the picture of comfort for Christine, with one exception. Although Erik’s home was quite cozy, it was still situated inside a cave. The stone floor was only slightly warmer than its counterparts outside and had the effect of ice on Christine’s bare feet. She went to check and see if her socks had dried out, but to her dismay she found them still damp. She hated to intrude on Erik’s kindness further, but the discomfort of cold feet was great. _Besides_ , she argued with herself, _he said himself the last thing he wants is for me to catch cold and he told me to help myself to anything._

Timidly, she approached Erik’s bedroom. She pushed the door open, and tentatively walked in. She did not have much of a chance to examine it before the incident with the wire. Staring down at her on the wall directly opposite the door was a huge musical stave complete with notes. With a start, Christine recognized it as the _Dies Irae_. _A strange choice for a bedroom by any stretch of the imagination. A strange choice for a strange man_ , she thought to herself. Directly below this he placed his bed. It was a beautiful thing, carved to resemble a swan. Standing in the corner was an architect’s desk, surrounded by piles of discarded designs and half completed sketches. The entire room, barring the wall that held the music, was hung in thick red drapery, casting the room in a sensual glow. Suddenly struck with embarrassment, Christine strode over to a nearby dresser and hastily began to look for the much needed socks. Thankfully, she was not too long in doing so and found the socks with relative ease.

She began to make her way towards the door, but in her haste, the side of the robe brushed against the drapings. She turned to make sure that she had not upset them too bad and went to make sure they were in place. As her fingers grasped the fine material, she realized that the space behind one of the curtains was empty. Hesitantly, she pulled it back the fine material and peeked inside. Indeed, there was a hidden alcove. She let the curtain fall and quickly stepped back. Erik was full of secrets. Was there no place he touched that did not hide something? What secrets could this possibly hold? Could it be a clue to better understanding this man who simulously thrilled and frightened Christine? Or could it be something horrible such that Christine wished that she had never looked.

Caught in a battle between her curiosity and better judgment, Christine contemplated the potential consequences for her actions. Erik had been gone now for quite some time and if he happened to come back now, she would be caught in an awkward position. But then again, she could always use the socks as an excuse. She knew that if she did not look, she would be forever wondering what Erik took such pains to hide. This was the decisive move in her internal debate and she went to take a nearby candelabrum to better see in the dim light.

Christine steeled herself for whatever she might find and pulled back the curtain. For a wild instant, she thought she saw a ghost. A white figure, almost luminescent in the dark, floated in the darkness. Intrigued, Christine drew closer to the figure. To her horror, incriminating details made themselves known with the illumination of the candles. An intricate wedding dress stood before her on a mannequin.  A dark brown wig, curled so that resembled her own hair, was perched on the figure’s head, and painstakingly painted on its face were blue eyes, closely resembling her own. Shocked, Christine dropped the candelabrum. The full weight of realization hit her with the force of being struck and she grasped the wall in support.

_My God_ ,  _I’ve fallen in a madman’s trap_.

Breath became scarce as Christine began to hyperventilate.

_So this is why he brought me here. To give the underworld a queen. Hades needed a Persephone._

She did not know how long she stood here, gasping for breath, staring in horror at what fate had in store for her. As long as Christine was below the Earth, she was entirely in Erik’s power. Her only chance was to somehow, anyhow, charm him into letting her go. Then she could forget the Angel of Music entirely and try to live a normal life.

Collecting herself, she picked up the now extinguished candelabrum, and just before she let the curtain fall, she took a second look at the bride. Its pale arms seemed to stretch out before her, as if beckoning Christine to the fate which lay before her. Filled with fresh horror, she dropped the curtain and ran into the light of the parlor to await Erik’s return.


	12. Ascending

Erik quickly pulled himself up the ladder. Even when surrounded by complete darkness, he was still able to navigate the labyrinth beneath the Opera Populaire with blinding speed. He smiled as he thought of how he led Christine down hours ago. It took so very long! He only rarely used that particular path, only when he was forced to shop and couldn’t easily sling the various packages in a large bag across his back. There was so many faster, albeit more physically straining, ways to travel in Erik’s underground kingdom. He knew these passages better than most people knew their lives. At any given area, he was able to quickly draw up a mental map of the surrounding passages, various routes, and most importantly, his traps.

Although memories of Persia left a sour note in his mind, he had to admit the time he spent there had been useful. He had hated jumping at the infamously sadistic Sultana’s every whim and had disliked his assigned tasks even more. Although Erik held a grudge against the human race that would never heal, he saw little point in not granting the damned a quick death. What was the point of torture? What pleasure could anyone gain from watching the pain of others and they slowly made their way to their end? The Sultana found abnormal pleasure in watching these painful deaths, the more horrific the better.

Erik sickened as he involuntarily recalled one time when the Sultana discovered a plot to revolt against the monarchy. Erik had been tasked with providing the most gruesome death imaginable, and being addicted to a variety of drugs at the time, was forced to comply. The Sultana keenly observed the some odd five hours the poor souls were forced to watch as various internal organs saw the light of day for the first and last time, and, at the finale, when the victim’s hearts were pulled out of their chests, experienced an almost orgasmic reaction.

Erik bit back the wave of nausea that assaulted him.

_Thank any God that Persia is a memory now._

He paused in his mad trek to the surface and tried to chase away the vile memories. Persia was in the past. Paris was the present. Christine was the future. His sweet Christine.

He conjured up the memory of her smile, her laugh. Her soft eyes, so blue he could drown in their depths. She was truly his angel. If she became his, he would endure all. He would bear any suffering, tolerate any indignity if he knew she waited for him at the end of it all. Couldn’t she feel it? They were cut from the same cloth, in essence.

_The Greeks couldn’t have phrased it any better. One soul inhabiting two bodies._

It wasn’t his fault humanity had distorted and twisted half of the whole into something monstrous. Erik shook his head. He needed to show Christine the truth and somehow make her see who he truly was, not the appearance he presented.

The plan, something he once thought of as all but indestructible, had crumbled before his eyes, leaving him to grasp at its ashes as they fluttered past him. He was now forced to formulate a new strategy in real time. In a way, he was glad to have a few moments away from Christine, to develop a short-term blue-print until he could plan long-term. He resumed his trek to the surface with newfound determination. He was sure to impress her with his concern for her comfort, going out of his way and potentially risking his health to ensure Christine wanted for nothing, even with such a minute tribulation.

_Certainly, in a similar situation the boy would not go to such lengths for Christine,_ he thought with a fresh rush of hatred for the Viscount de Chaney.

Erik was almost to the passage which would take him directly to Christine’s dressing room. He quickly sidestepped a particularly cunning trap, one of the few lethal ones in his kingdon.

Erik had always thought of the two way mirror as the most vulnerable of the various doors which led to the underworld beneath the Opera. It was far too easy for anyone to draw close to the mirror and notice the shadows behind it. Another close look could reveal the switch which released the counterweight and allowed the mirror to open. As a precaution, Erik had placed several traps in the various passages the mirror opened to, and placed a particularly nasty snare in the passage a bystander would be most likely to take: the large, open corridor directly in front of the mirror. A large trap door, sensitive to any excess pressure, would swing open and allow the trespasser to drop four stories to a quick end, dashed against the top of the cave the lake lay inside of.

Finally Erik reached the halfway point of his journey. With an almost nonchalant flip of his hand, the mirror was opened and Erik stood inside Christine’s dressing room. He strode to the large oaken chest, standing by the dressing screen. If Christine took a change of clothes with her to the Opera, it would be in here. The Opera issued every performer such a chest to place their valuables in and, in their superstition, it was an unspoken rule among the actors and dancers to keep a few outfits handy to avoid any wardrobe accidents. 

He opened the chest and was pleased to see that Christine was not one to buck a tradition which had existed in the Opera Populaire since before Erik had taken residence in its depths. He rifled through the various layers of cloth and was surprised to find himself indecisive about what to take back to Christine. Should he take her the rose gown, which would be sure to highlight her cream complextion? Or should it be the sapphire dress, almost perfectly matching her eyes? But, would such a choice imply that he was looking at her body, a most ungentlemanly gesture. Would the dull green gown with its high color and long sleeves be more appropriate? Why did such a simple task need to be fraught with so many risks and peril?

Erik snapped out of his deliberating thoughts. Someone was coming to the door. He cursed himself; in his hurry to return to Christine, he had not taken care to lock the door. Silently, he moved to a spot where the door would conceal him when it was opened and began to ready himself. The Punjab lasso slid out of his sleeve and fell into his hand with reassuring weight. If anyone discovered him, they would not live to tell the tale.

A small eternity seemed to pass as the fool fumbled with the lock. It was honestly a miracle that such clumsy oafs were able to successfully run a theater. The majority of the “professionals” that graced the stage moved with the degree of refinement a workhorse possessed.

Finally, the trespasser unlocked the door and with a protesting creak, the door swung open. Erik held his breath as they walked into the room with surprisingly light steps, punctuated with the occasional thud. Erik relaxed at the sound of a familiar walk. As the person stepped fully into the room, he soundlessly closed the door, turned the lock, and stepped into the light.

“Good evening, Madame.”


	13. Decisions, Decisions

"Good evening, Madame."

The figure stiffened. With an air of dignity, the woman slowly turned to face the source of the voice.

"Erik." she curtly replied. "Why are you in Christine Daae's dressing room?"

Erik smirked. "For what other purpose than attaining something I sorely lack in my own home?"

With an air of deliberate casualness, he walked to Christine's trunk, pulled out the azure dress that had caught his eye earlier, and folded it across his arm.

Madame Giry raised a well-groomed eyebrow. "I have heard of men with strange tastes, but I never thought you among their ranks."

With an eye on Madame Giry's face, Erik coolly responded "Or perhaps, Giry, there is a beautiful woman in desperate need of clothing waiting for me in my home."

To his great satisfaction, Erik saw Madame Giry's eyes widen with shock as one hand flew to cover her mouth. "Erik… You, Christine… You didn't? Even you wouldn't…"

Brushing imaginary lint off the dress he held, Erik said "As much as I appreciate your faith in my keeping Christine's honor intact, no. There was an entirely freak occurrence that I could not have engineered if I wanted to that resulted in Christine falling in the lake. I'm simply fetching her a pair of dry clothes while she bathes."

"So you've finally done it then, spirited Christine away. I should have guessed it was you, I thought the rumor mill was correct in guessing that the Viscount de Chany took Christine away

Rage suddenly burned throughout Erik. Everyone thought that  _boy_  was the one who took Christine away, did they? Although, Erik had to admit, it was preferable to the Opera wondering where their new star could have disappeared to, how  _dare_  they assume that such a fop was worthy of even a sliver of time with Erik's Angel.

"Well, Madame, you aren't wrong. Our Viscount was the cause."

"Oh? How so?"  
"That conniving popinjay convinced Christine to join him for dinner. He had the  _gall_  to address her with familiarity that had not been earned. I saw the lust in his eyes. Where I see one of God's own, he saw nothing but a pretty face with an all too innocent mind behind it."

Erik's hands clenched.

"I know his type. He is of the  _gentlemen_  who prey on chorus and ballet girls. They promise the poor girl the world and leave her with nothing. Christine would have fallen prey and might have had her heart broken by him, or God forbid, a bastard by him. She might have lost the spirit behind her voice, become an empty shell void of her beautiful soul. I was forced to reveal myself. I could not risk losing her to someone as exceptionally unworthy as him."

Madame Giry's eyes softened. "Erik, I understand that you love no one more than Christine, please remember that she does not yet know you. Please give her time for affection to develop and grow. Don't expect her to return your love now; she might become frightened by the… intensity of your feelings toward her."

"You don't think I know that?" Erik hissed. "I have been nothing but respectful and careful around her." Erik looked down at Madame Giry from his considerable height. "I will wait as long as it takes for Christine to return my feelings. I have waited a lifetime for her, I can wait in peace now that there is a chance I too can experience the greatest bliss this world offers."

"I'm glad you understand. By the way," Madame Giry nodded at the dress in Erik's arms "you won't want to take that to Christine."

Erik's brows furrowed in confusion. He held the dress out in front of him for inspection. "I see nothing wrong with it. It will look lovely on Christine, as does everything."  
Madame Giry sighed, walked to Erik, and took the dress out of his hands. "This is satin. If she is cold, it will do nothing to help. The lining is made to be attractive, not comfortable. The corset that goes with this dress requires the aid of another. Unless you're willing to spend a few uncomfortable minutes lacing up a corset, I wouldn't take this one."

Erik involuntarily blushed. He had to admit Giry had an indisputable point. But how was Erik to know about which dresses are paired with different corsets? It was beneath him to use his influence behind the walls of the Opera to intrude on a lady's modesty.

"Well, Madame what would you recommend, as you seem to be experienced in these matters." Erik drawled.

Madame Giry rifled through the nearby trunk and pulled out a dress that was, in Erik's eyes, quite dull. Although it was a lovely shade of crimson, it was unfortunately plain with a simple design.

"This is the most comfortable dress I can find. It's quite soft and it will be warm. Better, it's not made for outwear, so it can be used with a front-lacing corset. You'll also want to take Christine a pair of stockings and maybe a shawl."

The pair spent a few pleasant moments hunting for these various items and arguing over their various advantages and disadvantages.

"The wool shawl is the warmest of the bunch. If Christine is cold, she will want this one."

"The wool, Madame, is uncomfortable and would scratch Christine's wonderfully soft skin. The knit is soft and thus infinitely superior  _and_  has the benefit of not looking like something out of your closet."

"Ah, certainly. Because a bachelor who has never spent time with a young lady knows her every wish and preferences."

Finally, they came to an agreement on what Erik was to bring Christine. The red dress lay folded over the dressing screen, along with a dark grey, knitted shawl, thick black stockings, and a pair of black gloves.

Erik surveyed his cargo and nodded in satisfaction. Christine was certain to be impressed with his apparent sense for her wellbeing. An idea struck him and he quickly turned to the dressing table and began rifling through its drawers.

"Erik, you're now crossing the line between being concerned for a young lady and being unsettling."

"Christine will need various toiletries, will she not? I cannot expect her to use my brush, can I? And I do not possess the various items unique to young ladies."

"When will she have a chance to use these things? She'll be back at the Opera in the morning. You'll bring her these things only to bring them back in a few hours."

"You incorrectly assume Christine will be returning to the Opera relatively soon."  
Disbelief and shock colored Madame Giry's expression. With a tremor in her voice, she replied "Erik. You cannot make Christine love you by keeping her prisoner. You must bring her back tonight."

Indignation flooded Erik. First, who was Madame Giry to give  _him_ instructions? And as if he would keep Christine prisoner! She was free to leave any time she wished, he simply would not tell her how long she had been below the Earth.

"I will bring her back in my own time. We must seize the opportunities we are given."

"Well what in God's name am I supposed to tell the managers?! She's still a ballet girl by contract, and so I'm expected to know where she is at all times!"  
Erik tossed the various items in the bag he brought along with him. "I don't care. Tell them that a dear friend fell ill in the country and Christine needed to nurse her back to health. Tell them that her time of the month unexpectedly came and she is in too much pain to sing or dance. Or better yet, tell them that you last saw her with the Viscount de Chaney and maybe they had better question him as to the location of Christine Daae. Whatever you decide, send me a note in the usual way tomorrow."

Erik slung the bag over his shoulder and began to walk towards the mirror. He tossed over his shoulder "I trust, Madame, that you'll think of something. Worry not, you'll get a bonus in next month's salary for this."

With that, Erik pressed the spot on the frame that released the counterweight of the mirror and stepped back into the dark.


	14. Return

Christine tried to keep her mind on the book and not on the situation she was in. She didn't see any point in dwelling on things. Once she decided how to get out of this mess all she could do was wait. Yes, she would humor Erik, charm him with any feminine charisma she possessed so that she would be released from his underground kingdom.

_Certainly, Erik is a likable fellow_ , she mused _. But the dress. What could have possessed him to do such a thing?_

Christine wondered for the umpteenth time what time it was. Erik's home was curiously barren on any clocks, the only one she'd seen was the watch hanging from his waistcoat.

_It's a good thing Carlotta decided to throw a tantrum Saturday night. I don't have to be back at the Opera until Monday._

Christine sighed and put down her book. After reading the same paragraph six times and still not understanding it, she decided to abandon the affair altogether. _The Count of Monte Crisco_ would be a riveting read under any other circumstance, but at the moment she could not fix her mind on anything other than Erik. From the little Christine knew of him, she knew that Erik could not be entirely sane.

After all, what man claims to be a divine being for over a decade, lives in a sewer, and keeps a model of his pupil in a wedding dress? She should run away from him at the first chance and not look back. But then, why did she have conflicted feelings? Erik seemed to be kind and gentle, and he seemed to understand Christine better than anyone ever did, save her father. Erik understood her passion for music, if anything, his obsession exceeded her own. He was refreshingly different from the usual men who came calling on the ballet corps, those beasts every ballerina was forced to converse with so that those men would maintain their patronage of the Opera.

No matter what redeeming qualities Erik may possess, at the very least, Christine needed to get away from here and clear her thoughts. She needed to get a clearer picture, at the very least. Perhaps in the future, they could talk on neutral ground and Christine could find out the precise nature of Erik's motivations. But that would be something for Christine to ponder once she was back aboveground. At the moment she needed to think about what she could do once Erik returned.

Christine felt the panic she had earlier threaten to return. How on Earth could she face him when she knew the secret the bedroom walls held? It was certainly easy to decide the method of her escape, but planning its execution was an entirely different story. And what if he charmed her into forgetting it when he returned? Erik's voice was splendorous, beauty made audible. Christine found it difficult to keep her head when he spoke to her. But what better way to fight such a thing than facing it head on? Her mouth quirked at an ironic thought.

Unless she played her cards right, Christine would have a lifetime to train herself to resist the power of Erik's voice.

* * *

Erik tied the gondola to shore and, with incredible speed, fetched the bundle and was in the passage that led to his house in mere seconds. He knew he was long overdue with the promised clothes. Madame Giry's unexpected intrusion had cost him precious time, regardless how productive it had been. Erik stopped short of the front door and braced himself for the unavoidable onslaught of emotion when he entered Christine's presence. Erik needed to be charming and personable. He needed to show her the man before she knew of the monster. Christine had to _want_ to return to him. She needed to forget that a mask even existed. Then and only then maybe she would eventually tolerate the horror of Erik's face.

Erik took a breath, gently rapped on the door to make his presence known, and stepped into the room. He searched out Christine and found her asleep on the Grecian couch, clutching a book. She looked so… _adorable_ like that, curls fanned across the fabric, curled in a ball, face smooth and peaceful. Erik's mouth curled in an involuntary smile. He would have been perfectly content for the rest of time to stand there and study the pattern of Christine's breathing, how the candlelight played with the contours of her face, the graceful curve of her spine.

But alas, the moment ended all too soon. Perhaps it was the sound of Erik's knock, perhaps it was the sudden rush of cold air, but whatever the cause, Christine began to stir and sat up with a stretch.

"Bonjour, Mademoiselle. I have returned with the promised clothes. I hope that you did not wait too long." Erik said with a fond smile.

Christine turned toward his voice with a smile mirroring Erik's own. But unexpectedly, when their eyes met, Christine's smile froze and the color drained out of her face. Christine's head subtly turned and her eyes flickered to some remote area of the house before meeting Erik's gaze once more. Christine slowly stood up and with unsteady steps made her way to Erik's side.

_My God, she looks like she saw a ghost!_ _She must be sick! In my stupidity I've let her become ill! I've ruined everything!_

Christine stopped a few feet in front of Erik and was silent.

"Erik", she whispered.

She swayed dangerously and instinctively Erik moved closer to her. This was Christine's undoing. Her eyes rolled back in their sockets and she began to crumple to the ground. Erik dropped the bundle and caught her at the last moment. She lay entirely comatose in his arms, unresponsive to Erik as he called her name and gently shook her.

In a panic, Erik checked Christine's breathing and pulse. He himself almost swooned in relief to find both still in working order. But as wonderful as this finding was, her breathing was still too shallow and her pulse was racing. _Thank God she isn't wearing a corset_. It would have been a wretched affair to explain later if he had to cut it off so that she could breathe normally.

Erik carried her to the bedroom. She would have to sleep off this fainting spell and when she woke, he could better diagnose what caused her to fall unconscious. He tenderly placed her in the center of the bed and went to fetch an extra blanket.

His angel would not grow worse on his watch! He smoothed the thick quilt over her and brushed a wayward tendril of hair from her face. When she woke, hot tea and breakfast would be in order; perhaps she should take another hot bath. Perhaps he would make those blueberry pastries she was so fond of. If she felt up to it, he would give her an exceptionally productive music lesson. She would make incredible progress now that he could instruct her without the inhabitations of speaking through a wall. As he exited the room, he glanced at the recess that held his private madness.

One day, the mad dream would become a reality. One day, it would be Christine in that dress.

Erik had to keep believing that.


	15. Divided

Christine woke to the sound of a violin. Still cocooned in Morpheus's arms, she let the music play with her thoughts. Dimly, she recognized the melody as an old Swedish folk song. She hadn't heard a violin so perfectly played with loving strokes since her father. There was only one other person in the world who knew the nuances of music so well.

_Erik_.

The sweet calm in Christine's mind was broken and she sat up with a start. The events of the previous night made their way to the front of her mind. Why couldn't she had followed her own plan? Why had she been so consumed by blind panic and anxiety? Seeing him standing there, knowing what he wanted from her… But he did not know that she knew and she had no reason to fear anything as long as she did not give him reason to suspect. Unless he intended her to find it?

Christine got out of bed and silently paced the floor. Why had he not ensured that she could not find the dress? But then, it was covered, it had been pure coincidence that she stumbled upon its secret. Even Erik could not have predicted that she would have been bold enough to enter his bedroom and borrow a pair of socks.

Upon reaching this conclusion, Christine paused and touched the little crucifix around her neck, Christine's only heirloom from her mother. It never failed to bring her peace. She took a deep breath. Christine needed to trust in herself. She needed to trust in God's will. _God helps those who help themselves. And by God I'll get back to the surface if I have to lie, cheat, or beg._

Christine's eyes flew open. Had Erik heard her stir? She cast out her hearing for the sound of a violin and thanked God when she found it. He was playing a different song, something Christine did not recognize. Why had she not heard this particular song before? It was perfection, something Christine would have expected to hear at the gates of heaven. She eagerly hurried to the door, but the sight of her arm clutching the doorknob made her, thankfully, halt. She realized that she was still wearing the robe Erik had lent her. She felt the warmth of her blush creep to the very tips of her ears at the thought of walking into the parlor dressed so. Consumed with sudden embarrassment, she quickly searched out any clothes more decent than her current outfit.

A sudden rush of affection for Erik filled Christine when she saw the clothes laid out for her on the desk chair. She rushed over to them and examined them. How did he know her so well? Erik brought, for one reason or another, Christine's favorite home dress, thick stockings, and, surprisingly, her brush set. Christine quickly donned these blessed clothes and made herself presentable. As she did so, Christine took the liberty of examining the various sketches that littered the desk and the few that were tacked to the wall. How was it possible for one man to have such a fruitful imagination? There were intricate buildings, elaborate fountains, breathtakingly beautiful furniture, exquisite still lifes… And those only made up the very top of the pile. She carefully leafed through the papers. So he did leave the Opera! There were countless sketches of Paris and its inhabitants, of children playing in the street, a couple sitting on a bench, of people enjoying an afternoon in the park. Christine could have spent eternity there, at that architects desk leafing through the drawings, but finally she pulled herself away to finish her ablations.

Finally she was done and pleased to hear that Erik was still playing the beautiful music she heard earlier. Earnestly, she opened the door and all but ran into the parlor.

She found Erik facing away from Christine, surrounded by discarded sheet music. Silently, she walked to him and picked up what appeared to be the first page. _Aminta's Theme_ was the title, written in blood-red ink. Bemused, she tried to remember any references to an Aminta in the operas she was familiar with. There was no such character in any opera she knew, but why had the Opera Populaire not staged this opera? It was heaven's music on Earth, the divine made audible! She studied his face as he played. Concentration furrowed his brow and set his mouth in a hard line. Erik's world had contracted to this one page, this music.

Christine too was engulfed by the music and stood there, unmoving as the melody washed over her senses. She did not know how long she stood there, nor did she care. Christine joined Erik in his world of music and sound. The outside world could have fallen away around the two and they would not have stopped to turn their heads. The music reached its crescendo and at after the finale, they both had to catch their breath.

Christine opened her eyes and looked to Erik. He still had not noticed her presence. Erik silently shook his head and muttered "It's still not right."

Christine smiled and whispered "I think it's perfect."

With a jolt, Erik started and looked at Christine incredulously.

Stunned, Erik asked "How long were you listening?"

"Since midway though the jämn polska"  
Erik pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled. "Thank God. Thank God you weren't listening earlier."

"Why?"

"I… I'm ashamed to admit this, but I could not control the urge to play one of my works and prayed that you would stay asleep."

"Erik, there's nothing wrong with any music, especially one that you would write."

Erik jerked away as it he had been stung.

"Don't speak so lightly of what you don't know. Music can be dangerous." he coldly replied.

Christine stopped her line of questioning at this reminder of the man she was dealing with. _I can't upset him_ , she reminded herself. _I can't risk being trapped down here for eternity with no say in the matter_.

Christine held out the sheet music she picked up earlier and quietly asked "Is this one of your compositions too? It's absolutely breathtaking."

Erik's sudden hostility melted away and he smiled. "Yes, I wrote this. A part of a larger work."

"A larger work? What are you composing?"  
"The work of my life, an opera the likes of which the world has never seen before. Don Juan Triumphant."

"Don Juan Triumphant? It sounds wonderful! Could you play some more from it?"  
Erik sadly smiled and gently shook his head.

"Christine…Christine I don't want to hurt you. Don Juan is dangerous and it burns. It burns the very soul from humanity and displays it for all to see. Aminta is the only gentle thing in Don Juan's world, the only redemption he has, so I wrote the music accordingly. While everything else is wrenched and vile, Aminta is all that is good in Don Juan Triumphant. I would not want you to hear such music."

"I understand. Please don't take this the wrong way, but I'm curious, why do you write such a… burning work? Why do you write painful music?"  
Erik's mouth hardened. When he spoke, he sounded as if he was worlds away. "Personal experience."

He put the violin back in its case, bent and gathered the sheet music scattered on the floor, and silently began to put them in order. Christine knew better than to push him for answers and quietly waited for Erik to finish his work. When he was satisfied, he placed the music back on the stand and turned to Christine.

"I took the liberty of preparing breakfast. Shall we?"

Christine smiled. "Certainly."

* * *

Over breakfast, Erik inundated Christine with questions about her health, determined to find out the cause of Christine's fainting spell the night before. No excuse Christine gave satisfied him, no red herring could throw him off the trail. Christine tried to avoid lying altogether, but nothing would deter Erik.

She resigned herself to going to confession at the next chance she got and said "I did not want to be an unpleasant guest by saying this earlier, but… I did not eat anything since lunch yesterday. I suppose that I fainted out of being famished. It happened quite often when I was a child living on the streets with my father, I thought I outgrew it but I suppose I didn't."

This seemed to put an end to Erik's interrogation. He quietly contemplated this and said "I apologize, my dear. I should have been a better host. But you too are partly to blame. You should have taken the liberty of preparing something. Promise me that you won't neglect your needs at the expense of mere niceties while you're here."

"I promise."

Erik smiled and said "Now my dear, once you've finished, are you feeling up to a music lesson? Now that I can help you directly, you can reach your full potential ahead of schedule."

Christine put down her napkin and began to clear the table. Once she finished, she turned to Erik and said "I would like nothing more, maestro."


	16. Uncertain

**A/N Sorry for not updating! Long story short, I was really burned out by last semester and wanted to take a good, long break to rest my brain, writing fanfiction included. Now that college has started again, I'll try to update weekly as I did last year. Hope this extra long chapter makes up for it! Also, let me know what you think! I'm afraid my writing skills got rusty over the last month...**

The happiest hours of Erik's life flew by on gilded wings. Euphoric hours spent with Christine, their angelic voices entwined in godly song, went by in a blur. Time lost all meaning to Erik, stretching to eternity and yet, ironically, it was over all too soon. Monday morning was here and it was time to send Christine back to the upper world. His angel couldn't make her triumph, just to forfeit all by not attending the rehearsals for the coming week's shows.

_Of course,_ Erik thought with a surge of pride, _Christine's Saturday night triumph will pale in comparison to what is to come._

Indeed, as predicted, Christine's voice flew under the direct guidance of its master. Christine's voice now truly bordered on the divine and was incredibly close to being Erik's equal in all respects. Oh, how Erik would enjoy seeing the fresh looks of astonishment and incredulity on the fat, shiny faces of the managers, enjoy hearing the silent shock of the crowd. Once again, his angel would be the talk of Paris. But of course, first things first, Erik had to return Christine to the upper world before such a thing could occur. Erik's heart sank at this depressing thought and he resumed brooding.

He had only had his Angel for a little more than a day and he had to return her already!

_How am I supposed to make her see the man behind the monster with only bits and pieces of her days?_

Erik rose from his chair with a sigh and walked toward the kitchen. He had been lost in thought all too long and Christine would wake soon. During her short stay in Erik's home, she had wanted for nothing. Erik attended to Christine's every need and whim, with the attitude of the believer serving their God. Today, the last morning, would be no different.

* * *

It seemed to Erik that the closer the dreaded journey came, the faster time flew. Breakfast raced by and Christine's singing lesson seemed be but a fraction of what it was before.

Oh but he did not want to say the dreaded words! He wanted nothing more than to keep Christine in his home for the rest of time, safe and secure and _his_ in the bowels of the Opera Populaire.

But, whatever ground he made during these few hours would be lost if he kept her prisoner against her will. In a fresh surge of motivation, Erik figuratively braced himself and heard himself say, "My dear, please dress warmly. We're going out."

Christine looked up in surprise at Erik from the new aria she was examining.

"Out? Why? Is there something you want to show me?"  
"In a way, yes. A quick way to the surface."  
"The surface? Is it Monday?"  
"Yes, it is. Time does have a way of slipping through one's fingers and it is suddenly Monday meaning those fools who run my theater will be missing you. Also," Erik added, "worry not about your spare clothes and possessions. I shall bring them to your dressing room before this afternoon's rehearsals."

But an instant passed for Erik and Christine stood before him, wearing the heavy clothes needed for her to withstand the cold outdoors. Ah, how delectable Christine managed to look regardless of dress! Lithe, notwithstanding the added bulk of the coat, and her face framed by the hat was absolutely divine. How was it possible for a human to be so perfect in every way? Erik forced himself to advert his gaze before his staring was entirely obvious. Oh, why did he have to lead this sublime creature from his home? He needed to get this over with before the compulsion was too strong.

His gaze wandered and landed upon the door of his home. Good God, he nearly forgot! Erik would not have his angel shiver as she did on the way here. No, Erik would make sure to err on the side of caution with all things concerning Christine. He took another look at Christine. It appeared that she would be warm enough for the trip across the lake. But nevertheless, just to be sure, Erik fetched his overcoat and held it out for Christine.

To his surprise, Erik saw Christine discreetly roll her eyes. With a small smile on her face, Christine said, "Surely you don't think I need to dress for sub-zero temperatures for a short ride across the lake!"

Erik was taken aback. What did she mean?

_How can Christine think that she can risk an illness, just avoid wearing another layer of clothing!_

"Christine, I understand, but please humor a music teacher's whims. It would be devastating to me if your voice was damaged by a cold caused by my taking you to my home."

Christine smiled, shook her head and, thankfully, accepted Erik's help in putting on the coat.

* * *

Happily, the ride across the lake was not the silence of Charon's boat that had been on Saturday night. Christine was enchanted by Erik's gondola and ceaselessly asked him where he got it, how he make it, what inspired its design, and just when did he go to Venice and what was it like?

As he poled the boat across the lake, Erik painted a picture for Christine of the floating town he once visited, described to her the beautiful decaying buildings, the way the singing of the gondola polers drifted across the silent night waters, and the architecture.

God, the architecture! Erik hadn't thought about Venice's architecture in so long! He found himself lecturing Christine about the genius of those who built Venice, how they created and found beauty in one of the most unlikely places.

Suddenly, he stopped himself.

"I'm afraid I bore you with my ramblings." he apologized.

Christine sat up, and replied, "No! Not at all! It's wonderful to watch you talk about a subject that interests you, your eyes sparkle and your whole body comes alive. Please go on."  
And so Erik resumed talking, albeit turning into the shadows so Christine could not see the blush that had unexpectedly colored his face.

* * *

Erik led Christine up the road out of the cave. This time, Erik noted happily, Christine seemed much surer of herself as she walked up the pitted path. Although she still stumbled a few times, she moved much quicker and with confidence. But time still moved relentlessly, pushing Erik aside in its flow. The ground seemed to metemorphasize from rock to sand and finally to smooth planks of its own accord and suddenly the path branched off in three directions.

At this crossroads, Erik stopped Christine and asked "Do you think you can remember the path I'm going to show you from here? I don't mind marking the passage for you, but I would prefer not to run the risk of some fool stumbling down here."  
"I've always had a good sense of direction, I can remember with no help. Also," Christine suddenly said meekly, "please don't take offence, but why do you want me to know the way?"

Despair filled Erik once again, thoroughly driving out the hope and happiness of before.

_Of course, why would she think about seeing me again?_

Even with such a good heart, why would any sane person consider spending their free time with the opera fiend? What would Christine want to do with such a monster?

"I simply thought, oh such a foolish thought! I thought that you might want to know a way down to my house that wouldn't require you going through your dressing mirror. A faster way, a more dignified way. And that perhaps you would want to visit me of your own accord. But it is no matter. Forget I said anything. Come we must return." Erik replied miserably.

He began to walk forward, holding the lantern up in a futile effort to chase away the darkness that was suddenly threatened to swallow him whole. Erik suddenly felt a hand grip his sleeve and gently tug him back. Stunned, Erik turned to face Christine.

Christine smiled and again touched Erik's arm, but with such warmth and affection Erik could only stare at her in shock.

"Erik, I would never have dreamed that I would be granted such a privilege. I am truly flattered. But you will still tutor me daily, will you not? I would much prefer walking down to your house with you. But I will learn this route, so maybe one day I can take up your offer."  
What was Erik hearing? She was _considering_ returning to the monster? Christine called visiting Erik a _privilege_? These few words…

To his horror, Erik felt tears rise to his eyes accompanied by a small, stupid smile that refused to dissipate. No! He would not cry! Not in front of Christine! But regardless, such small simple words…

Erik could have kissed the hem of Christine's dress; he would have groveled at her feet in gratitude.

_Anything! Anything for my Angel! She only need ask and I would be her willing slave for eternity!_

"You are very kind, Christine," was all Erik could manage to say.

Before he could do anything foolish in his joy, such as profess his love for Christine right then and there, he quickly turned away, grasped Christine's hand, and began to lead her once more into the dark.

* * *

Predictably, Christine was shocked at the sight of the furnace stokers of the Opera House. There was no chance of being seen by these workers, the pair passed by far enough away and in the shadows nonetheless, but the furnace system was clearly visible from their vantage point.

What Erik didn't expect was the precise reason for Christine's shock.

"So the tales are true!" she gasped.

Erik snorted and looked down at Christine.

"Tales? Surely you never believed in that superstitious nonsense perpetrated by the privileged."

"I have heard stories of such demons who live under the opera, attending to the very fires of hell! And here they are! Look! They are black as soot and those things… Those huge vessels of fire! I can feel the heat all the way from here!"

This was simply too much for Erik, especially coming from Christine. Before he could stop himself, Erik glared at Christine through the corners of his eyes and sneered, "Demons simply because they live in the Earth? I suppose that makes me Lucifer then!"

Christine looked up at Erik, fear shining in her sapphire eyes.

Immediately, Erik was ashamed and regretted his outburst. Who was he to act like a perfect beast to such an angelic creature! He deserved each and every injustice for acting in such a way! She had each and every right to refuse to see him again!

"Christine!" he quickly said, "Forgive me, I should not have released the ire for those who put those people here on you."

"No, it is I who should be sorry, I acted like a child. I… I just heard nothing but the Opera house stories for how many years now." Christine replied, looking away.

She paused.

"And I suppose the superstition of the Opera rubbed off on me."

Erik sighed and stopped Christine.

"Look," he said pointing to the figures in the distance, "Christine, those are people. Ordinary people, nothing remotely demonic about them. But unfortunately, these people are at the very bottom of the Parisian social latter. They are the pariahs of our society. The ex-convicts, those who grew up in slums, the bankrupt. This is but a step up from begging in the streets. After all, who wants to spend their life toiling for the comfort of the better off? But they feel that it is better to serve in heaven than to reign in hell. They should be commended, not shunned. So tell me, how do you think these people react when some dancer or patron, either position heaven in the eyes of these people, comes down to gape and gawk at them? Of course they frighten the unlucky bastard off!"

Christine looked down at the floor, a blush delicately coloring her cheeks. With the look of a child being scolded, she took another look at the workers and said, "I never thought of it that way."

She shook her head.

"I suppose it is our nature to take what is said as the truth without considering the alternative. Those poor creatures… I keep forgetting that Paris is so different than the rest of Europe in its prejudices. I wish I knew why the French loath the poor and unfortunate so much." Christine looked at Erik.

"Forgive me. I shouldn't have acted so foolishly."

Erik nonchalantly waved his hand. "There is nothing to forgive. You understand now, that's what is important. If the rest of Paris was as humane and civil as you and I, the condition of the human race would be so much better. Come now, let's continue."

It was only a short walk to the staircase from that point. Erik watched with amusement as Christine looked up apprehensively at the soaring flight of stairs, seemingly twisting to the heavens.

"I know it looks intimidating now, but you'll soon get used to it and won't even notice it's height."

"Where in the Opera does it end up? Which dressing room?"  
Erik smiled and replied, "None. This takes you up to the Rue Scribe side of the Opera House."

Christine's eyes widened and she took another look at the stairs.

She turned to Erik and said, incredulously, "How did you ever manage to build such a thing?"  
Erik laughed, throwing his head back. Did Christine truly think him so skilled as to construct a staircase entirely out of metal, standing nearly twelve meters high, singlehandedly?

"Even I am not so capable to create this myself! I would need to be a God to do such a thing, although I do appreciate your faith in my abilities. Its story is much more mundane. This used to be a secret entrance for the Communards, back when the Populaire was used for housing war materials. The door was originally sealed off after the war, but I made some modifications and now with this key," he said, pulling said key out of the air with a flourish, "one can come and go like the ghost I pretend to be."

Erik pressed the key into Christine's palm and held her small, delicate hand between the two of his.

"I would like you to have this and please use it. Don't worry about propriety or social restrictions, you have no better, more faithful and respectful friend in the entire world than myself. Visit me anytime you wish. I will hear you no matter where you are along the lake, and if I am not home, please take the gondola across the lake yourself."

Christine's brow furrowed.

"I realize how ignorant this may sound, but how would you get across the lake if I were to take the gondola?"  
Erik smiled.

"I have my ways. After all, I am Monsieur Fantome de le Opera! Now hurry my dear, you must prepare for today's rehearsals."

Christine began to walk toward the staircase, but just before her hand grasped the rails, she paused, turned around and asked in a quiet voice, "When will I see you again, Erik?"  
"If you wish to see me before our lesson tomorrow morning, be in your dressing room an hour after rehearsals."

"Alright, and thank you Erik. For now, good bye."

Seized by entirely uncontrollable impulse, Erik suddenly strode over to Christine and gracefully bent to press a gentle kiss on Christine's hand, straightened and looked into her eyes. He searched her face, silently hoping, longing, pleading.

"Adieu, my dear."

Erik held Christine's hand for as long as possible, forcing himself to let it slip out of his grasp as Christine began to ascend the staircase, key in hand.

As she drew out of sight, Erik's smile began to fade and once she could no longer see his face, and his features reassembled themselves into that of complete sadness and longing.

The further away Christine drew away from Erik, the emptier grew Erik's soul. The urge to run up the staircase and spirit Christine back into the depths of the Opera, never to return to the world above, was almost overpowering.

Erik could only stand there and watch Christine's figure grow smaller and smaller until it finally disappeared with a sudden burst of light.

_If only, if only._

_If only Christine could love Erik as he loves her._

_But, all hope is futile._

_For who could ever learn to love a beast?_


	17. Freedom?

Christine pushed the door open and stepped into the light of freedom. Immediately, she threw her arm up to shade her eyes as she struggled to adjust to its brilliance. Blinking rapidly, Christine struggled to make sense of her surroundings. She was indeed on Rue Scribe, as Erik promised. Her heart leapt at the familiar surroundings, Christine delighted in everything offered by these simple, familiar surroundings. The cobbled stones under her feet seemed as nostalgic and dear to her heart as old friends, the rough stone of the wall under her hand was the most joyous sensation.

_Free! I am no longer in his power, I do not need to fear any longer!_

Christine drew a deep breath and savored every promise it contained: freedom, warmth, sunlight. Christine opened her eyes and relished the scene before her. How had she forgotten what it was to be out in the open, entirely unconfined, in but a little more than a day?

Christine estimated it to be about ten in the morning, judging from the shadows and the hint of chill that remained in the air, giving her a few hours to attend to her various errands before she returned to the Opera Populaire.

So much to do before rehearsals this afternoon!

Christine stretched, rejoicing in the feeling of being entirely unconfined. But as she did so, Christine felt the teeth of the key dig into her hand and with it, knives buried themselves in her soul.

_Dear God! Erik!_

With a heavy heart, Christine remembered every foolish promise, a desperate effort to buy her freedom.

_I promised to go back to him._

Christine turned around to face the door which led to Erik’s kingdom. For a few seconds, she was forced to search until she found the small grooves which marked its edges. Upon closer inspection, she found a small keyhole which was all too easy to mistake for an irregularity in the stone. Had she not just come through that same door, she would have had a hard time even considering its existence. But of course, why would Christine expect anything less from Erik?

_After all, he does take such pains to hide his existence. Why should this be any different?_

Would Christine ever gather the courage to approach this small door and willing return to the dark? Or to the destiny Erik clearly hoped she would fulfill? Christine felt anxiety brush the edges of her being, the panic she had earlier threatened to return. She turned and hurried away. Christine had to remove herself from the situation, if only for a few hours. She needed to reconsider this, from the comfort and familiarity of her own room.

Christine could not deny, even to herself, the pull she felt toward Erik. Against all better instincts, she found herself fascinated by the mysterious Erik.

Christine shook her head. She was being foolish. She saw the evidence in front of her own eyes. A mannequin made in her image wearing a wedding dress of all things! What further proof did she require to charge Erik as not being entirely sane, or safe? And during the time she spent with him, he had devoted himself entirely to two things: music and Christine. _Not the marks of a rational man!_ she scolded herself.

Christine’s heart leapt as the small crumbling grey building came into her sight. Who could have thought a small, unfashionable flat could hold such happiness? She found herself hurrying to the staircase. Ah to be back in the world that held Madame Valarius and Christine’s small garden!

Christine’s train of thought suddenly stopped short. She had entirely forgotten about Madame Valarius! What would she tell the woman who had been like a mother to Christine for how many years? She had never lied before to the good Madame, there had never been a need. The Angel of Music had taken Christine under his wing just as the urges of rebellion and deceit were beginning to take hold of Christine’s soul and drove them out before those horrid feelings had a chance to mature. Christine spent what was for most people, the most trying time of her life devoted entirely to music and her Angel. Madame Valarius knew all and, holding God in even higher esteem than Christine, encouraged Christine’s lessons with the Angel of Music.

Christine internally shrugged her shoulders. She would tell Madame the truth, that the Angel of Music had spirited her away and how they spent countless hours with no thought but the music of their voices.

Christine simply would not tell Madame the truth behind the Angel.

By this time, Christine had reached the familiar green door that lead into the flat. She slowly opened the door, in a futile effort to quiet the inevitable creak. The flat stood before her in all its tarnished glory, a artifact of days past. It was old fashioned to say the least and the odor of decay permeated its every corner, but it was home, second only to the Opera Populaire.

Christine tiptoed towards Madame’s room and peeked inside.

Thankfully, the old woman was sleeping. Of course, such was not a surprising thing. Madame Valarius had been suffering from the wasting sickness for many, many years now and spent most of the day in the painless clutches of sleep.

Regardless, Christine walked over to the bed, sat in the chair at its side, and put her hand over the old woman’s. Alas, if only Christine could confide all in Madame! Madame, in her many years of wisdom, surely could council Christine in the best course of action.

But Christine could not be so selfish as to burden Madame’s mind with her problems. Especially with such an incredulous story! Madame had enough worries in her life and had at last made entire peace with her condition. No, Christine could not risk jeopardizing that peace!

 But there was no one else to turn to! The only other women in Christine’s life were Madame and Meg Giry and the maid Christine hired to look after the flat. If Saturday night’s conversation with Meg would not have been, Christine would have foolishly told Meg all. But Meg’s doubt that Christine was entirely sane and truthful was far more than enough for Christine to push all thought of trusting Meg with an even greater secret aside. If Christine even hinted that a musical genius made his abode under the Opera Populaire, Meg would surely be the first to turn Christine over to the madhouse.

Christine cursed her past foolishness. Why had she spent the last decade with no thought but the Angel of Music! If only she had done as any other girl would have done and befriended more of her fellow dancers! She might not be alone in her burden now if she had!

Christine sat entirely absorbed in thought until she heard the small clock on the fireplace mantle quietly chime twelve. It was getting late.

She wrote a quick note for Madame explaining what had happened and rose. She had to prepare supper for Madame Valarius and herself before she changed into a different dress. But, as she walked through the drawing room to the kitchen, she caught glimpse of the small garden she kept on the balcony. Good Lord, were the plants wilting?! She hurried and threw the twin French doors open.

Yes, the flowers Christine took such pains to cultivate were indeed tinged with brown around the edges. That foolish maid! Christine had told her countless times to water the plants after the flat was cleaned, but the girl seemed unable to understand instructions that deviated in the slightest way from customary maid work.

Christine hurried to fetch some water and bestowed the blessing of life onto the flowers. These flowers were the only bit of nature Christine had daily access to here in the heart of Paris. Even if it had been over a decade since Christine had lived in the lush forests of Sweden, she could not bring herself to lose contact with nature entirely. With her schedule, frequent visits to the Bois were out of the question so Christine had made the compromise of bringing a bit of the landscape she so cherished into her home.

Ah, this was contentment for Christine, standing in the brilliant sunlight, watching the soil return to a rich black, while humming an operatic tune.

_It’s a shame Erik can’t share the same pleasure._

The unexpected thought jogged her out of her serenity. Erik. How did he have the ability to sneak into her thoughts, so far from the Opera Populaire? He had no right to intrude on a moment such as this!

What truth stood behind such a thought anyway? Aside from the mask, there was no reason Erik couldn’t walk about Paris in broad daylight. After all, Christine did see the evidence that Erik went about Paris, she herself had admired the various sketches of Paris and its inhabitants on his desk.

What secret did the mask hide, if any? For all Christine knew, the mask was simply an instrument to prevent Christine from recognizing him in Paris. And why was he guarded about the fact he wore a mask? Every time any strand of conversation even approached the topic, he shut down and Christine was forced to change the subject before something happened.

Though he clearly tried, Erik could not hide his dark moods from Christine. At seemingly random points in conversation, his mood would suddenly change and he would become depressed and sullen. Then a few moments later, he would try to animate himself into a more joyous, carefree persona, with poor results.

Of course, Christine was not so foolish as to ask what was wrong, lest he refuse to lead her back to the surface, or worse. No, she pretended that she did not notice the change at all and managed to appear lighthearted during her stay at Erik’s house.

Christine sighed. She was running short on time as it was, and she could not devote any more time to her plants and dwelling on Erik. She divided the remaining water among the various flowers and turned to go back inside.

But regardless of what she did or the pains she took to steer her thoughts to more pleasant topics, the topic of Erik remained firmly entrenched in her mind.

Though she tried to convince herself otherwise, Christine knew what decision she had reached.

She would see Erik again.

Christine would solve the mystery of the mask and of the man behind it.


	18. Curiousity

_Damnable curiosity!_

Christine hurried through various small alleyways and less than honest streets in an effort to get to the Opera Populaire on time.

_Why do I even consider such a thing? Why do I willingly go back to a madman?!_

Christine was caught in a war with herself. She knew that she would indeed continue her music lessons with Erik, and would likely return to his house on the lake, but detested the thought at the same time.

_Any rational person would run from the same situation once grated the opportunity and yet I run back!_

Curiosity, you see, had always been Christine's fatal flaw, her hamartia. Once something or another had caught her interest, she would see it through until the very end, until she had either found the information she sought or no longer had the opportunity to do so. This trait had caused her much trouble over the years, from the time she made herself deathly sick as a little girl because she was determined to see the validity of the legends of the elves that danced by night to various adventures in cooking. On one particularly noteworthy occasion, during her first month training as a ballerina for the Opera Populaire, Christine released a trap door midway through dress rehearsals and sent La Carlotta on an expected trip, all because Christine could not resist seeing what would happen if she pulled one of the many levers all the cast was warned to stay far, far away from.

Erik was now Christine's new interest. After all, what sort of a man lived several hundred feet under one of the world's foremost cultural pillars, hid his face with a mask, and wore the guise of an angel for over a decade? As much as she hated herself for it, Christine would be compelled to return to Erik, not by any power he wielded over her, but rather under the duress of curiosity. She would solve the mystery of the man, would understand whatever reasons he had for his unorthodox behaviors, no matter the cost.

Christine had no other choice.

But she still despised the idea. To be forced into something, even by herself, was an idea Christine absolutely detested. After Christine's father died, Christine had not been the mistress of her own actions for many, many years. Forced into ballet school because being trained to sing was more expensive than being trained to dance, forced to be the quiet, placid girl society expected her to be, forced to live as the last in her family…

But this is not to say that the good Valarius family was unkind to her. Indeed, they treated Christine like the daughter they never had. But Christine had always understood she was a charity case, only taken in because she had nowhere else to go. She could no longer be the free, laughing girl she had been in Sweden and when she traveled with her father. Instead, she had to be quiet, seen but never heard. In order to survive, Christine had to live and act the way society expected her to. Circumstance had taken any decisions for the course of her life out of her hands, utterly alien and obscene to her.

Christine had often been told she had too much of her father in her.

Indeed, free-spirited, independent Gustave Daae had instilled many of his qualities in his daughter before he died, including a revulsion of being controlled in any way, and Christine was only too proud of it.

Christine sighed. There was no use berating herself over and over again with no resolution. She knew what she would do, and reevaluate the situation after her music lesson with Erik tomorrow. For now, she needed to clear her mind and focus on the task at hand. Certainly she had done well as La Carlotta's understudy, but she did not yet know if she would continue playing Elyssa, or go back to her previous role as a slave girl, and continue perfecting her line in Act I, Scene III: "The Romans!"

Anxiety ate at the edge of her soul. How she dreaded today's rehersal! Drastic success was never looked upon kindly behind the curtain of the Opera Populaire where a strict class system existed for the cast members. What glares would she have to endure from her comrades in the ballet corps? How many whispered words and conversations about her would she overhead? What stories about her sudden disappearance would float around the Opera for the next few weeks? Although, there was one small blessing; thankfully she did not have to worry about creating a story to excuse her absence.

Christine took out the note, opened and reread it as she walked. Although she had memorized it by now, she still could not comprehend who would send such a thing.

          "The managers and the Viscount de Chagny believe that you became

           ill from the excitement of your premiere."

She had found the note mixed in with the various letters and bills in this morning's mail. Not a soul other than Erik, to her knowledge, knew about her stay in his home, and only a select few knew where she lived. Erik had not sent this, of that she was certain. She had seen a bit of his handwriting on an aria he corrected for her. He had claimed that she did not sing a cadenza with enough emotion and, in a fit of frustration, had underlined the offending passage and had written in "Passionately!"

Although Christine could not contest Erik's brilliance, his penmanship left quite a bit to be desired. When he initially handed her the corrections, it took her quite a while to see that he had not actually been checking if there was ink in the quill. The handwriting on this note was far too fine and delicate for Erik.

But in the end, it did not matter who this anonymous savior was, this was simply one less problem for Christine to worry about.

The Opera Populaire was coming into sight now; just Christine heard the clock that stood a few blocks away chime a quarter to three. Christine shoved the note into her bag and began to run. Rehearsals started at three o'clock sharp and she certainly could not be tardy when she stood poised to become the Opera Populaire's new leading lady. She still had so much to do before she walked onstage. At the very least, she needed to change into her costume and do the breathing exercises the Angel of Mu – _Erik_ – insisted helped her sing and improved her technique.

**A/N: Sorry for a short, late chapter! I'm suffering from a combination of writer's block and lack of motivation right now... Anyway it would mean a lot to me if you'd take the time to review and let me know what you think/give me feedback. Thanks!**


	19. Duality

Christine hurried out of her dressing room, finishing her dressing as she did so. Why did these costumes need to be so intricate? Yes the effect was lovely onstage and during better moments Christine adored the details that graced even the lowliest costume, but at this time Christine would have liked nothing better than to be dressed in a simple cotton shift. She was running horridly late, made later by needing to tie an almost obscene number of ribbons and button too many buttons for her taste. Even now, as she jogged down the cramped hallway, she still was not yet done, trying to button the last few stubborn areas of the sleeve.

She walked onstage two minutes past the hour. Christine was late. A rich blush stained her cheeks in shame as she took her place among the performers. She could feel their eyes boring into her back in absolute disgust and loathing. Here she was, only days into her breakthrough and she was already acting like she was resident diva, the ungrateful little minx!

Christine could not blame them. If a similar incident would have occurred which she was still just a ballerina, Christine would likely be thinking the same thing. But unlike what anyone else, Christine could not defend her actions. The secret of Erik's existence was not hers to share. The world would never know of the man who lived under the opera until the day he chose to make his presence known. But even if she could, who would believe her? The cast would have absolute faith in the myth but would scorn the thought of the man.

Christine braced herself and walked to Monsieur Reyer for her music. Like the demanding maestro he was, he looked past Christine and pretended not to notice her. If there was anything Monsieur Reyer loathed, it was a performer who did not honor their position and dared to arrive after he did. He considered it a personal insult to be kept waiting by someone in his charge. You were not late in the Opera Populaire if you took your place before Reyer stepped in the room.

"Maestro?" Christine timidly asked, "What am I to sing today?"

Reyer fixed a look of complete and utter loathing on Christine. Christine felt her face pale and her hands start to tremble. If he had the mind to, Reyer could dismiss her from the Opera once and for all. Although the managers were the authority the cast should have feared, it was Reyer who held said position, as for the most part, he held the future careers of the cast in his hands.

"Mademoiselle Daae. I see you have finally decided to grace us with your presence."  
"I'm sorry I was late, Monsieur. I did not mean it. It will not happen again." Christine whispered.

Reyer did not see fit to look at Christine directly and instead examined upon his baton as he thought of his reply.

"The managers seem to have enjoyed your… singing." He pronounced the word as if he could not find a lowlier, more insulting phrase. "Otherwise I would tell you that your position is no longer required for the season. See that you are not late again." Reyer said as he handed her a thick bundle of papers.

Christine could only nod in gratitude as she grabbed the papers and scurried away to her spot. She had gotten off incredibly lucky, Reyer could have offered her one of his infamous deals in order for her to keep her position.

She found the courage to peek at the papers and felt joy fill every crevice of her soul. Christine was officially now Carlotta's understudy! This was a dream come true to Christine. This was the first step toward her ultimate goal! Her salary would almost double and she would be able to play Elyssia on Monday and Tuesday. God, what fantastic luck.

She couldn't wait to get home, Madame Valarius would be so proud! Madame's smiles these days were few and far between, but each one directed toward Christine was a benediction. And Erik! He would be so happy to see his tutoring had worked its magic!

But happiest of all, Christine now officially had a fighting chance to achieve her ultimate goal. With sublime bliss in her heart, Christine raised her eyes towards the heavens.

_Your dying wish might finally be coming to pass, Papa. Maybe now I can make you happy, up in heaven._

* * *

Christine slammed the dressing room door shut. She then walked over to her dressing table, sat down and let her forehead hit the table with a soft thud. This had been a mistake. Already Christine longed for the quiet days where she was an unassuming ballerina. Today was first day at her new job. Why did everyone automatically assume she knew exactly what she was doing? And between the cold silences and the fake, enthusiastic congratulations she didn't know how to address the people she had worked with for a decade.

Everyone now suddenly expected her to be the happy, outgoing, insincere prodigy to Carlotta, never mind that everyone knew Christine Daae was a quiet girl who preferred to stay out of the center of attention. She had been unpopular before because of this trait but now she was hated. Everyone now saw her as an ungrateful little twerp, or memorably, in the words of Carlotta herself, a toad.

Christine ran her fingers though her hair and sighed. She had no one to turn to. Even if she told Erik, the one friend she now regrettably had in this world, he might jump to the worst possible solution at the mistreatment of his student.

Just then there was a quiet knock at the door.

Chrisitne turned and glared at the offending mahogany. Who would have the gall to disturb her in her moment of self-pity?

Christine marched to the door and flung it open, fully intending to let whoever it was know exactly what she thought.

She opened her mouth to speak, but stopped in shock when she saw who her guest was.

"Raoul!"

 


	20. Dear Old Friend

Christine was taken aback. Raoul de Chany was the last person she would expect to call on her since that awkward conversation just a few night ago. Even if Raoul had changed entirely from the quiet, unassuming boy she once knew, only the most lewd, boorish aristocracy would advance on a woman who had so thoroughly rejected them.

"Raoul," Christine asked gently "What can I do for you?"

Raoul stood in the doorway, clutching a small bouquet of flowers, completely disheveled in appearance. He only vaguely resembled the dashing gentleman of a few nights ago. Indeed, this was the Raoul Christine knew during that fateful summer.

Raoul met Christine's eyes and immediately dropped his gaze to the floor. He shifted his weight, his entire posture making his discomfort all too clear.

"Christ - _Mademoiselle Daaé_ , may I come in? I would like to talk to you in private."

Perhaps it was the pitiful figure Raoul cut in her doorway or perhaps it was the wave of nostalgia that hit Christine but whatever the reason, Christine felt her heart soften. Raoul looked so heartbreakingly hopeful, not in any way resembling the twenty-four year old man he was, but rather the fourteen year old boy she knew so many years ago.

Christine opened the door wider and nodded. Hesitantly, Raoul walked into Christine's dressing room. Christine closed the door and waited for him to speak. In silence, the two looked upon each other. With a start, Raoul seemed to suddenly remember the flowers he tightly clutched.

"Ah, I thought you might like these." He said, handing Christine the flowers.

"Thank you." Christine said as she accepted the gift.

"Violets! Oh Raoul you remembered!"

A pink tinge colored Raoul's face as a small, delighted smile crossed his face.

"How could I forget? You made me spend hours at a time with you looking for your favorite flower."

Suddenly, he tensed up once more, reaching up to tousle his hair.

Christine couldn't help but smile. So he had kept that small nervous habit he had so many years ago even into adulthood!

"Ah, I came to apologize about my behavior the last time we spoke. I was entirely out of line."  
Christine did not reply but nodded in agreement, encouraging him to continue.

"It was entirely uncalled for for me to presume that you would be willing to accompany a stranger of the years. And far worse for me to insult your integrity."

Raoul clasped his hands together tightly.

"Please, please give me a few moments to try to explain."  
Christine nodded her assent.  
"I suppose I can hear your account."

Despite still being insulted and angry with Raoul, Christine could not help but feel affection for Raoul. A man, yes, but still so much the boy. Christine almost stepped forward to reassure Raoul. _Almost_.

"First, I just want to say how truly sorry I am. I have been so worried, hence why I am not in the most presentable state. I was afraid that it was my boorish behavior which drove you from the theater. I'm relieved to hear that it was not me who caused you to be ill."

Raoul's blush deepened and his eyes widened in fear.

"Which is not to imply in any way that I was glad to hear that you were ill! The news was only slightly less terrible to me."

Raoul paused and brushed imaginary dust from his coat sleeve.

"I… When I saw you on stage as Elyssa, I could not believe it. For the past ten years, I have often wondered what became of you. Then suddenly, I see Christine Daaé printed on the program and a woman who resembled the girl I knew on stage. I thought I was dreaming. When I found out from the managers that this Mademoiselle Daaé was indeed Swedish and had been at the Populaire for a decade, I knew it was you. But I was so nervous! It had been so long and I was afraid you would not remember me and I would appear to be the foolish, adoring fan who had lied to win a minute of your time. So, I made a mistake. I…"  
Raoul paused to tousle his hair once more before continuing.

"I followed Phillipe's advice and had a strong drink to steel my confidence before coming to see you. But, it was unfortunately too strong and I was slightly intoxicated when I called on you."

Christine managed to keep a neutral face for but a few seconds. Then she a smile broke out on her face and before long, she was forced to try and mute her laughter by covering her mouth. She finally was able to regain control, but when she straightened up and looked into Raoul's clear blue eyes, mirth threatened to overtake her once again.

It was wrong to laugh, but such a thing was so… _Raoul_. Raoul was still the nervous, shy boy he had been before, overly sensitive to other people's opinions. Such an endearing quality, but it did not yet excuse him from his behavior.

"Thank you for explaining, Raoul, but it does not erase the conversation from existence. My modesty is still offended."

Raoul's face fell and his stance weakened. He stood, examining the floor as he gathered his thoughts.

"I understand entirely. My behavior was and still is inexcusable. But," he looked at Christine hopefully, "would you give me a chance to try and remedy the situation over dinner?"  
Suddenly he blushed and straightened in a panic.

"Please don't think that I am trying to advance on you once more! I simply… I just want to apologize more thoroughly and win your friendship."

Christine pretended to consider this. Of course, she would accept Raoul's offer. There was nothing more in this world that she craved more right now than the comfort of companionship, and she could think of no better person than Raoul. If Raoul was but a fraction of the friend she once had in him, it would be far, far more than sufficient. In addition, it would not be unpleasant in the least to be seen in the company of such a respected aristocrat as he, the Viscount de Chany.

And, as Christine realized, it would be the first time in who knows how long that she had gone out to dinner with a gentleman. Without the 'Angel of Music's iron grip, Christine was free to do and go where she pleased.

"Alright Monsieur le Viscount, I accept your preposition. Allow me a few minutes to change and I will meet you in front of the Opera."  
Raoul's face lit up with joy. Blue eyes bright, with a smile on his face, Raoul replied, "Mademoiselle Daaé thank you so much! The chance to right the wrongs I have caused you means so much to me."

"Raoul, please, call me Christine. Mademoiselle Daaé sounds strange coming from you."

Raoul headed toward the door, "I'll only be a few minutes in getting the horses, I promise! I'll be waiting outside, Christine!" and strode out, giving Christine an absolutely glowing look of happiness before he closed the door.

It took Christine but a few minutes to change into something suitable to wear and within a quarter of an hour, she was on her way with her childhood best friend to sample the delights Paris offered.

It would not be for another half hour that a noise resembling a crash would reverberate from behind the dressing room wall.

 


	21. Enmity

The silence of the cold and dismal corridor was shattered by a sharp, ugly crunch as Erik slammed his fist into a rotten plank nearby. The wood buckled under the unexpected force, bending in on itself with a crack. The sound was sickly satisfying, and had all the effect on Erik as blood to a shark. He forced his elbow, aided by the full weight of his body, through the wood and bared his teeth in a menacing grin as he felt it snap into pieces. But even this did not satisfy his rage. In a spurt of destructive greed, Erik found himself stomping on the remnants of the wood, and had absolutely no intention to stop until each and every part was thoroughly crushed into splinters.

Somehow, through the din Erik created, he heard the sound of footsteps. The cool, clear feeling of total control flooded back into Erik, restored by the fear of his existence being found. Erik quickly kicked the remains of the shattered support aside and pressed himself against the wall, once more a just shadow among the shadows. Although his hiding place was optimal, cast completely in darkness by the light that spilled over from the mirror, Erik pulled his lasso into hand as an extra precaution. In Erik's experience, it never hurt to be prepared for any possible scenario. The footsteps were far off yet, anyone else would not have noticed the intruding sound for a while. But if anyone saw Erik in this way, as the man and not as the ghost, the life he had built for himself might fall to pieces in a matter of minutes. Erik would do whatever it took to keep his existence a secret, even if it took breaking his promise to Nadir once more.

Minutes crawled by as Erik stood, hidden behind one of the thousands of wooden support beams. In these minutes, Erik indeed was the ghost he took such pains to mimic. He stood almost inhumanly still and not a sound escaped him. The only thing which would have given a hint to his life would have been any escaping body heat in those cool passages.

Finally, the damned intruder to Erik's kingdom came within a comfortable distance for Erik to guess who this interloper was by the sounds of the footsteps. Instinctively, Erik's grip tightened on the Punjab lasso as he strained his ears to better catch the sound. Recognition hit Erik with the force of being struck as his heart leapt and he felt himself go cold with fear. Involuntarily, the hairs on the back of Erik's neck stood up and he attempted to press himself even further into the shelter of the dark.

_Oh God. No. Not now._

The sound of slow, measured footsteps, occasionally punctuated by the sound of something or another sliding over the worn wood, or a quick tap resonating from the wooden framework made their presence known to Erik. It was _him_.

Erik's heart raced as he tried to press himself as far as he could into the dark. He quickly pulled his hat down as far as he could over his mask and flipped the collar of his cloak over his face. While it had seemed seconds ago that _he_ could have moved slower if _he_ tried, _he_ seemed to be approaching Erik with incalculable velocity.

 _He_ was coming into Erik's vicinity now. Slowly, oh so slowly, _he_ came closer. Erik dared not move, dared not to breathe. But as the man came within arm's reach, Erik could not help but press the masked side of his face closer to the wall. As _he_ passed, Erik was taken in every aspect of _his_ figure. _He_ was almost as prepared as Erik was. Dressed entirely in black, a hat pulled over _his_ face, a dark scarf wrapped around the lower part of _his_ head, the only faults Erik found were in the cloth and in the shoes. Even if Erik's hearing was more honed than the average human's and it was more than likely Erik was quibbling over little things, it grated on him to not take precautions. As a result, Erik refused to wear rough, course clothing, partially from an aesthetic view but primarily from the fact that as he walked, excess noise would be reduced. But he really could not fault _him_ for what little aspects of the true professional sneak _he_ lacked. After all, not everyone knew the tools of the trade of assassins.

Finally, after what felt like years, _he_ passed Erik's immediate hiding place. But then, an unexpected sound broke through the dark. The sound of an object being kicked, and then skidding across the floor. Immediately, Erik heard _him_ stopped and then the rustle of cloth as _he_ knelt down. Erik heard _him_ feeling around in the dark, the sound of leather brushing against wood almost obscenely loud.

_Damn damn damn. The scaffolding. Damn._

Erik cursed himself. Of all the times to lose control, of _course_ the first time in a long time Erik had given himself completely to anger would be the time _he_ was in the area.

Finally after eternities of keeping still and hiding, Erik heard the sound of cloth on cloth, most likely _him_ pocketing something, and heard _him_ stand up. _He_ resumed his achingly slow, quiet walk into the dark, slowly leaving Erik behind. After giving _him_ ample time to walk further away, Erik quickly retreated into the belly of the Opera Populaire. Once he had gone far enough, into passages so complex and convoluted he himself rarely employed them, he let himself relax.

 _Damn it! The one time I lose control is one of the only times that_ he _was there! The one man in this world who I fear._

Even the Opera Ghost had the sense to fear _him_ the only other nameless figure who haunted the Opera Populaire. To the best of Erik's knowledge, the only ones in the Opera Populaire who knew of the shadow's existence were the managers, Nadir, and Erik himself. Naturally, _he_ did not have Erik's flair for the dramatic, or crave it as Erik did. Erik knew himself to be superior in all regards to _him_ , but nevertheless Erik feared _him_. _He_ was only other who had condemned his life be lived inside the Opera Populaire, albeit for more noble reasons than Erik, and the one man who could bring Erik down.

 _Of course, I meet_ him _after that! After Christine…._

_Christine…_

Erik tried to keep his emotions under control like he always did, reverting to that smooth mask he made his home inside. Sometimes, it was easy, but not today, not now. As wretched memories of a few moments ago flooded back into his mind, he could not help but sob, an empty feeling forcing its way into his chest and piercing his heart. Christine's careless abandonment hit Erik with fresh pain as he grasped a nearby ladder for much needed support. He almost collapsed right there and then with the burdun of his suffering. But the terror of almost falling into _his_ clutches was still fresh in Erik's mind.

Within the span of a few moments, Erik was involuntarily dragging himself back to his house. Blinded by burning tears and accompanied only by the sounds of his own agony, he rushed for the comforts of his home, familiar in its emptiness and eternal silence, save for Erik's music.

But even after he finally was home, Erik was not free. Even the burrow he had created for himself, far away from any man, was no longer the shelter he so desperately craved. It seemed that now, every corner held some memory of Christine. Here was the sheet music he had tutored her from, there was the book she had read. His bedroom, the sheets that she had slept on.

There was no escape from the pain.

He turned and ripped the coverings from the alcove. The dress stood there almost mockingly. How did he ever hope to win Christine? The very idea now seemed absurd to him. Why would Christine be even remotely interested in Erik? What could he possibly have to offer her? He had no legal source of income, he lived like a mouse, seventeen years older, and above all, monstrous.

As much as it pained him, he could not blame Christine for not choosing to wait to see him once more. Just that morning they had spoken, what more did Christine need from him in the same day? But of course, the hopeful fool he was, he had been waiting behind the mirror almost as soon as rehearsals had ended, happily planning his revenge on Reyer for daring to address his angel so cruelly. He had not expected Christine to have been so shaken by those fools who were so envious of her perfection. He had been so damned sure that Christine would turn to him for comfort; after all, did he not say that he would be waiting for her after rehearsals? when the knock on the door had startled them both. Then before Erik knew it, Christine was changing into evening wear, completely ignorant of Erik's presence and it was all Erik could do to preserve her modesty and avert his eyes. Then she was gone, likely sharing a laugh with the fop.

_That damned boy._

This thought twisted Erik's chain of thoughts and forced them down a much darker path.

That damned Viscount! Did Christine not know by now that there was no such thing as a free meal in this entire world? Everyone was out to get something; there was absolutely no completely altruistic act. There was some degree of personal motivation behind everything, although some were kinder than others. This Viscount, what could he possibly want with Christine but to take advantage of her?

Erik knew the boy's breed. He would promise undying love and happiness to Christine then turn around and marry someone of his own status, leaving Christine with nothing. He would not appreciate the singular talent she possessed! He could have absolutely no appreciation of the purity and goodness of Christine's soul! He was not worthy of Christine!

 _And you are?_ A snide voice asked. _You? A monster?_

Erik turned, wrenched open a drawer, and pulled out the only mirror he owned. He held the wretched thing in front of his face and examined the reflection of his face, split in half by the cold porcelain. Certainly he looked alright _now_. Not normal, by any stretch of the imagination, but passable.

But Christine would eventually have to come to deal with the truth. As good as she was, she would not be able to accept the truth without intense preparation.

But then, who was he to condemn an innocent to a life with a monster?

In a fit of self-loathing, Erik ripped off the mask and let it fall. His naked visage stared back at him and even Erik felt a wave of revulsion wash over him. He stared at the image, daring himself to look away, until absolute disgust and repulsion overpowered him and he was forced to put the mirror aside.

No man on this Earth could possibly be truly worthy of Christine, least of all Erik. Christine was, arguably, as close to the divine as a mortal could be and Erik had been called a demon countless times.

But Satan himself would have to drag Erik into the depths of hell before he would give up.

Erik sat on the bed and reevaluated the situation. Erik could in no way hint to Christine that her abandonment of Erik bothered him. He could not risk scaring her with the intensity of his feelings. Tomorrow morning, he would be the absolute image of an understanding friend, a gentleman. After all, what right did he really have to Christine's time at this stage? She only just found out that he was a man, not an angel. No, he would be the supportive friend, the ally she needed in this cruel world. In the meantime, he would discourage the boy from seeing her again. These aristocrats, for all their talk, were spineless fools. The Viscount would not miss Christine at all, once he found the task fruitless and potentially dangerous. Once _Raoul de Chagny_ had dropped Christine's acquaintance, Erik could safely proceed in the slow process of wooing Christine.

Erik breathed deeply. Not all hope was lost.

He stood up and replaced the mask.

Erik had preparations to make before tomorrow morning.


End file.
